


Trouble

by DaddyFuckinLongLegs



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Blood, Degradation, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, Knives, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rape Fantasy, Reconciliation, Sexual Violence, but "angst" I guess, hazing/date rape, it's pretty brutal guys, messy trauma, revenge or discipline or whatever you'd call this, this goes way beyond angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19151299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaddyFuckinLongLegs/pseuds/DaddyFuckinLongLegs
Summary: Hancock keeps his business in order.





	1. Chapter 1

Nate could feel Hancock's eyes on him as soon as he walked in. Stood at the end of the bar, hat tipped back on his head, leaning his ass on a stool with his ankles crossed; vodka in one hand, little red canister in another. Amari was talking to him earnestly, and he listened and nodded, but his eyes flicked to Nate and followed him across the room, narrowing as he took a seat. Nate coolly swept his hand through his hair, and pulled a handful of caps from his pocket. Hancock beckoned to Charlie, excusing himself from Amari with a graceful hand held in the air, and leaned over to the bartender, speaking quietly, keeping his eyes solidly on Nate. Nate sighed, blood prickling in his fingertips, the cold swell of _trouble_ settling in his chest. He kept his face still, serene. _Here we fucking go._

Charlie sidled over to him with a hissing of air vents and motors, and pulled a glass from the shelf, filling it with whiskey. He placed it in front of Nate, an elegant _clink_ as the glass met the bar-top.

"Mayor Hancock says drinks're on him.”  
Nate stayed silent for a beat, looking at the glass. Hancock's eyes burned a hole in his cheek. _Oh fuck._ He took a slow breath through his nose.  
“Tell him thanks, but I don't drink scotch. I'll take a Gwinnett.” He pushed the glass back towards Charlie. “And I'll buy it myself.”  
Charlie lifted the glass, and replaced it in front of Nate, the elegant _clink_ sounding more like the cocking of a gun.  
“I don't think you understand,” Charlie intoned quietly, the sound of bared mechanical teeth in his voice, “Mayor Hancock says drinks're on him, or _you_ don't drink at all.”  
Nate stayed his eyes on the glass, pushing the handful of caps back into his pocket, feeling for the flick knife buried there. His heart thudded cold in his chest, he focused on keeping his breathing slow. He stood to leave, calmly, deliberately placing his hands either side of the glass and sliding from the stool. Hancock curled the corner of his mouth into a smile as Nate stepped away from the bar, and he pulled his hat lower over his eyes, nodding.  
  
The gesture was too much; Nate felt fire in his chest. _No you fucking don't._ He turned slowly, picked up the glass and swallowed the contents, dropping it lightly back on the bar, and striding confidently for the men's room. From the corner of his eye he saw Hancock leap to his feet and follow him, casually, a few paces behind. His mouth dried up fast, but he continued on, rounding the corner to the urinal, puffing his chest and shoulders broad as he unzipped his pants. _I hope I can pee. Fuck, I hope I can pee..._ his muscles tensed as he forced himself to take a piss against the porcelain, jaw clenched and head held high. Hancock slid round the corner like a snake, coiled himself against the doorway, leaning one foot against the wall and crossing his arms across his chest, and watched him. He whistled.  
“Well, ain't you just a perfect relic of bygone masculinity.”  
Nate cleared his throat, eyes forward, shook himself off.  
“Maybe it's just me, but usually you ask a lady what she wants when you buy her a drink.”  
“Not if she's already had her hand in your drawers.” Hancock leaned forward, reaching inside his coat. “So to speak.”  
Nate made to tuck himself back into his pants, one hand reaching slowly for the knife in his pocket.  
“And just who the fuck d'you think would want to get ahold of your mangled junk?”  
  
Nate flicked the blade and Hancock sprang forward, shoving Nate to the wall, one hand digging the heel of his palm into the back of Nate's neck, fingers in his hair, the other holding a knife to his belly. Nate bucked and freed one hand, wrapping it in the ghoul's coat and tugging him sideways, and Hancock slammed Nate's head against the wall. Hot, flat pain rang through the side of his head with the impact, the stinging pop of his lip bursting against the sharp edge of his teeth, and the needlepoints of tiny chips of shattered tiling digging into his face. The pair breathed heavily, adrenaline racing, Nate's mouth slowly leaking blood against the tiles. Hancock pulled violently at the seam of Nate's trousers, reaching quickly inside his fly and grabbing Nate's testicles like a vice. Nate winced, the air rushed out of his chest in a wave of nauseating pain.  
“Drop the knife, wiseguy.” Hancock growled. “Or I'll cut these pretty fucking jewels off and wear them as a necklace.”  
  
Nate let go, the knife clattering loudly to the floor. Hancock relaxed his grip a little, but held firm, rubbing his fingers roughly over Nate's genitals, like a cruel and eager lover, and Nate's cock twitched responsively at the ghoul's hand working his balls. Nate gagged in revulsion, and Hancock chuckled, talking low into his ear.  
“I gotta say, I expected these to be bigger, given how you walked into _my_ town, fucked with _my_ warehouse, dug into _my_ strongroom, and tried to walk outta here without so much as a thank you for not wasting you on sight.”  
He pinched firmly, and Nate's breath hitched in agony again, his body trying desperately to draw his knees up and escape that sharp, sickening ache. Hancock's knife pressed hard into the soft, taut skin of his stomach, the point picking sharply at his guts, threatening to spill them.  
“Hold still there, sweetheart, you'll do yourself some damage. Now, if I ever see, or hear, or even think about you disrespecting me like that again, you can be damned sure I am going to _personally_ come find you and cut your pretty-boy face off, we understand each other?”  
Nate shivered, blood trickling down over his eyebrow, the bitter, metallic taste flooding his mouth. He nodded. Hancock nodded too.  
“Good. That trick with Bobbi No-Nose got me in a mess about you. I thought you were a passing merc with ideas above his station. Then I thought you were an idiot. And then I thought you were a coward. But now I got you alone, I can see you ain't any of them. You're just a little, lost pup, ain't you? Barking loud and hiding your wounds while you look for somewhere to lick 'em.”  
  
Hancock stepped back, and Nate rolled against the wall, bending at the middle and cupping his aching groin.  
“You keep on the right track now, and you might just'a found that place, brother. You bite me again, and I'll take you out back and put you down.”  
Nate gathered his breath, wheezing slowly, and stood up, leaning heavily against the urinal at his side.  
“I appreciate the warning.” He managed, eventually, “Sorry I pissed against your lamppost. But I ain't much of a lapdog.”  
Hancock smiled. “Good. Now go back to the bar, and take that drink. You deserve it.”  
He turned to walk away, the stopped and turned to Nate again.  
“Oh, and sugar, you got a little _lipstick_...” he gestured a circle at his mouth, “on your teeth. Might wanna clean it up before they all want a piece.”  
Nate mimed a kiss at Hancock, pursing his lips, then spat slowly, blood and saliva dripping heavily to the floor.  
  
“Hey,” he called, breathing heavily, as Hancock walked away. He nodded at his unzipped pants. “You're not even gonna finish me off?”  
Hancock smiled wickedly. “You got a smart mouth, sunshine. Don't let me catch you asking for trouble round here again, or you'll get it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just nasty, graphic non-con smut, because I'm a terrible person.

Hancock tugged his shirt undone, lazily rummaging in his pants, his hand curled around his dick. He sprawled languidly on the sofa, head lolled back, riding a slow, soft wave of jet, his eyes drooping almost shut, his mouth hanging open, neat, white teeth tingling in the cold air. The jet always gave him a little edge of arousal, encouraging his blood flow away from his head, and tonight he couldn't argue with the wriggling, itching pleasure it inspired.

He tossed the canister aside and rested his other hand on his stomach, tapping his fingertips lightly against his skin, little bells of uncomfortable pleasure on his belly. He remembered, years ago, the hand of a girl, when he was fifteen, running nervously under his belt and tapping, tapping, just like that, above his eager hard-on. Delicious.

Everything felt a little fuzzier, and sharper, and clearer, and softer, snippets of the day rearranging themselves in his head and fading to a pleasant hum in his throat. Magnolia's tits, in that red dress, smooth white and soft as milk under her dark hair. He pictured her sliding the straps off her shoulders, letting her pert, pink nipple out into the cool air, pinching it hard. His dick was getting hard in his palm, and he stroked it between his finger and thumb, lingering the pressure on the tip of it, enjoying the small, pinching of nerves, the tensing of muscle.  
  
He dropped his other hand to his balls, cupping them in his hand and squeezing, dragging his nails lightly across them. Another image, of that Vault asshole squaring up to him, bruised and bloody in the bathroom, Hancock's hands in his pants, stroking his nuts and making him squirm. His skin was soft, you betcha, fresh out of a vault no doubt about it, wiry pubes but velvety skin, and the way he bucked and retched, trying to get away... Hancock bit the skin where his bottom lip had been, a ripple of cruel pleasure running through him. Yeah, he'd deserved that, and damn hadn't his dick twitched when Hancock had brushed it. Guy like that was lucky, for sure, that he'd been feeling generous. He wasn't feeling so generous now.

He let his eyes unfocus, let them almost close, and pictured it again; the crack and slam of his head against the tiles, bright blood spilling slowly out of the guy's mouth, Hancock's fingers in his soft hair. When he'd struggled, slamming his hips back into Hancock's lap, and he'd pinned him hard against the wall. He remembered the smell; the guy was angry, afraid, sweating hard and laced with the clean, slick smell of blood and metal. But mostly fear. Hancock pictured biting down on the guy's neck, all teeth and tongue, tugging his head back by his hair and making him cry out.

He pictured his knife, sticking into the guy's prone stomach, just a threat, but a sharp, tangible threat. One wrong move and Hancock would slice him open, navel to sternum, and let him bleed out on the floor. But he sure was a good boy, standing there terrified, cock twitching against Hancock's fist, and _hating_ himself for it. Hancock could almost taste the bile in his throat, this pure, clean vault-boy getting mauled in the bathroom by a fucking zombie, and _his dick was enjoying it_.

Hancock's hand worked more quickly, tugging his foreskin back with a circled hand, pulling his cock out into the cool air; he tugged his pants down further and let his knees fall wide apart. He imagined dropping the guy's pants, leaving him shivering and exposed; he pictured trailing the knife down his bare skin, between his hips and down the seam of his thigh, holding the point of his knife to the tender skin under the guy's cock. Pictured him shaking, trembling, scared shitless of what Hancock was gonna do. Dragging the knife back up to his throat, pushing him down onto his knees, his dick shamefully hard and bobbing as he moved. Peeling his own hard cock out of his pants, swiping his thumb over that beautiful full bottom lip - all swollen and bloody and tender, squeezing hard on the guy's jaw, prying his mouth open and pushing his dick in to the hesitant warmth behind his teeth.

His stomach shuddered beautifully at the thought; anyone could walk in and see this guy, cock out and down on his knees for the mayor, knife to his throat, Hancock's hand guiding him roughly to to take it in, take it all in, all the way back, _choke on it you thieving motherfucker_. Watching him trying to push away, eyes watering; Hancock pinched his nose closed and kept pushing, watching him splutter and gag, shoulders heaving.  
  
He shifted again on the sofa, lifting his hips higher and pushing his fingers down under his balls, circling his asshole, his thighs shaking now. He imagined pushing the guy down on all fours, the tip of his boot pressed to the small of his back, arching him ass up like a whore, squatting over him. The guy is starting to cry, jaw clenched, trying to hide it, and Hancock's dick is hard and mean, wanting to split the motherfucker in two. He spits on his palm and rubs himself, wetting the length of his cock, and spreads the guy with his fingers, forces himself into the guy's ass. He yelps and brays, tears streaming down his face, and Hancock doesn't let up, pumping his gnarled hips against the guy's skinny ass. And he's crying, blood from his busted lip dripping to the floor, mixed thick with saliva, and his asshole is tight and raw, and this has gotta fucking _hurt,_ and his cock is smooth and hard in Hancock's hand as he reaches around and grabs it, tugging him into a painful, shuddering orgasm, his body tensing hard and cum spraying the floor and the inside of his shirt.  _You dirty piece of shit, coming all over the floor with my dick in your ass. I knew you wanted it, you little whore. Take it, shit stain, shut your fucking mouth and take it..._  
  
Hancock's stomach rolled, two fingertips pushing inside his ass, he jerked his hand frantically and bucked his hips as the tight heat of his orgasm built up in him. His balls tensed and clenched, pulling up high and tight; he rubbed the head of his cock, faster, harder, pointing his toes to the ceiling, and then _fuck,_ it all uncoiled, twanging every taught nerve through his belly and thighs, curling his toes and splashing a wet, white river across his stomach and chest.

He lay still for a moment, exhaling slowly, head spinning, then slowly eased himself more upright. He cleared his throat, perspiration cooling in the hollows of his ribs, his chest rising and falling steadily as his heart rate slowed. _Damn. Better remember that one._  
__  
Hancock rolled off the sofa, wiping his chest with his hand and pulling his pants up. He washed up in the sink and poured himself a nightcap. Maybe he'd been a little hard on the guy earlier. Still, better to show his teeth now, and not have to use them later. _Maybe I'll call on him, couple'a days time. Give him a shot at redeeming himself_ __  


 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Three days dragged their heels and hid their tracks, in the light haze of a lungful of jet, Hancock patiently keeping himself visible but at a fair distance from the vault-dweller, working out his routine, checking he was showing the proper kind of _respect_. And to his credit, the mayor had only got Fahrenheit to ruffle his feathers once, and that had gone pretty smoothly, all things considered. She hadn't even had to draw her gun. Said he looked tired, like maybe he hadn't been eating properly, and had sat, begged, and just about rolled over when she asked him to. Gave him back his caps in the end, didn't want to push it too far, if the mayor wasn't looking to cause him any real grief. Besides, he _really_ looked like hadn't been eating.  
  
Hancock propped himself up against the side of Daisy's store as the faded colours of evening rolled around. Vaultie stopped by about fifteen minutes later, half chewed cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, eyes dark and distant. Hancock listened carefully; he asked her how old she was, and sold her some shit about being older than her and having seen the bombs drop. Daisy snorted at him and called him a liar, but they shared a wry, humourless laugh and he tipped his pockets out on the counter and took some .44 rounds and a can of water. Daisy slipped him some potato chips from below the counter, mumbling that he was starting to look as old as he claimed, and he nodded gratefully and slipped out, heading for the Rexford.

Hancock tailed him, less than cautious, but keeping his distance. The vault-dweller stopped at the hotel doors, and span wearily around, looking Hancock in the face from across the street.  
“Look, whatever I did to piss you off this time, can you take it out on my hide another day?”  
Hancock crossed the street, slowly, hands raised.  
“No such luck, sweet thing, you'll have to get your rocks off some other way. I'm here to talk.”  
Vaultie's shoulders dropped, he leaned his hand against the door. “Well, with the best of intentions, can we hurry it up? I'm not really in the mood.”  
Hancock nodded at the door. “Go on in. Get a beer, and we'll be done by the time your bottle's empty.”

Nate eased himself into an armchair, slouching forward with his elbows on his knees. He took a swig from his bottle and extended his hand to Hancock.  
“Name's Nate. Should say thank you, I guess. For...” He nodded at his beer.  
Hancock smiled, impressed at his decision to make physical contact, and shook his hand casually.  
“Don't mention it.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Nate, y'understand I gotta keep things a certain way around here, and sometimes that means busting heads when someone gets a little sharper than they ought to.”  
Nate frowned.  
“Well, forgive me for feeling like I oughtta stay sharp. You turned a guy into a welcome mat as I walked through the gate.”  
“And I thought that would've been enough of an example, so you didn't get the idea that I was a soft touch. Nobody crosses me, Nate. Nobody. You got lucky the last time.”  
Nate's voice rose sharply.  
“You know I didn't know it was your warehouse, yeah? I didn't come here to make trouble, I came here to-”   
He stopped himself, angrily, clamping his mouth shut and staring mutely at Hancock.  
“Look, it doesn't matter. I came out of that vault without a god damn thing, and I took a job to make some fast money so I don't starve. There's only so much bullshit you can handle on an empty stomach, and this town is full of it.”  
Hancock smiled at that, and raised his bottle.  
“More than you know, buddy. More than you know. I'll drink to that.”  
  
Hancock held his arm outstretched, waiting for Nate to join the toast, and Nate looked at him, incredulously.   
“No?” Hancock shrugged, made to take a drink, then slammed his bottle down onto the rim of Nate's, the glass colliding and beer erupting in a thick froth.  
“Oh you jackass!” Nate responded quickly, grabbing it from the table and sucking the top of the bottle into his mouth to quell the flow. Hancock laughed, and wiped the table with his elbow.  
He smiled. “ _Professional_ jackass. _Title holding_ jackass.”  
He leaned back, swinging his beer to his mouth, resting it against his teeth. “You gotta lighten up a little. You're strung tighter than Vic on election day.”  
Nate looked at him blankly.  
“The last mayor.” he took a swig. Still nothing. “We hanged him.”  
Nate blinked slowly and raised his eyebrows.   
“I don't know if I'm surprised by that.”  
Hancock wiped his mouth with his fingers.  
“You shouldn't be. Martial law is all we got around here, with the Institute and the Brotherhood and the packs of fuckin' raiders and muties and ferals howlin' at our gates. Keep ourselves to ourselves and watch each other's backs. That way we can all kick back and relax a little sometimes.”  
  
Nate nodded, and they sat quietly for a moment. Hancock shuffled in his seat and leaned forward, knocking back the brim of his hat with his knuckle.  
“Look, I can tell you ain't had the best of luck since you scrambled outta that hole. I'm not gonna press about it, but most everyone here has a history they'd rather forget. You can go on with your lone wolf thing, and maybe you'll find what you need, or maybe you'll get your balls blown off and die on a scrap heap surrounded by big green bastards in loincloths. If you ask me, you could stand to make a few friends. Lightens the load.”   
He leaned in close, almost whispering; “Besides, after our... brief introduction, I'd say you got the nicest set of balls in the commonwealth. Be a shame to lose 'em.”  
Nate cracked a smile but shuffled uncomfortably, awkwardly shifting his eyes around the bar.  
“Yeah, about that. Could we, maybe, never mention that again? Not... well I might've deserved it, but it'd rather...”  
Hancock held up his hand, bowing his head.  
“Say no more. 'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot.”   
Nate nodded.  
Hancock studied Nate as he stared across the room; heavy brow set in a near constant frown, high bones of his cheeks looking set to tear the skin, narrow mouth almost pouting. Hancock recalled for a moment the way his lips had wrapped around the lip of the bottle, hollowing his cheeks out, and he shifted his gaze quickly. _Easy there, we can take some time over that later._

He drew himself back to the matter at hand.  
“You got more than those potato chips for a meal tonight?”  
Nate looked sheepish.  
“I'm... I'm not feeling so hot on the eating front, right now.”  
Hancock nodded. “You should see Amari tomorrow, get yourself looked at. Probably the radiation, if you've come out of a vault for the first time. For now...” He rummaged in his coat pocket, tossing a canister of jet across the table, “You get stuck for caps, you stop by the State House and find me, okay? One time offer.”  
Nate picked up the inhaler, turning it in his hand.   
“Trust me.” Hancock said sternly.  
Nate nodded again and pocketed the inhaler.  
“Thanks. I'll, er... I'll let you know.”  
Hancock leaned back again, spreading his arms wide across the back of the chair, and crossed his legs, one ankle balanced loosely on the opposite knee.  
“So... we understand each other better? Feeling a little more neighbourly?”  
Nate set his beer down on the table.  
“Yeah.” He sighed heavily. “I guess so."   
He finished his beer. Looked at Hancock.  
"Jackass.”  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

Nate shut the door behind him, and leaned his back heavily against the wood, clasping his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes. His stomach roiled, nausea shivering quietly through his chest and shoulders, and he swallowed shallowly. _Radiation sickness. Sure. Of course. What the fuck else did he expect._ He let his hands drop to his sides and slumped onto the bed on his back, unlacing his boots and tossing the can of potato chips to the floor. He glanced at them, but thought better of eating them. What would be the point? More rads, no flavour, and he'd only throw them up anyway. _Fuck._ He dug deeply in his pants pocket, and fished out the inhaler Hancock had given him, turning it over in his palm, tapping his fingertips against the plastic.  
How much could it hurt?   
  
Nate held the canister up to his mouth, parting his lips, and paused for a second. If this went   
south... hell if this went _well_ he had no idea what it was gonna do, how it was gonna feel. He was taking the word of a guy who'd kicked his ass and almost sliced him up only a few days back. A guy with a face like a fucking nightmare, and a whole town of fucked up people under his spell.  
Seemed pretty stupid. Didn't it.  
  
He pushed the metal compressor and sucked hard, the gas hissing and fizzing it's way into his lungs. He held his breath for a few seconds, a count of one, two... three... and exhaled deeply, his breath pouring from his open mouth like thick silk, blood whooshing slowly in his temples, strange, soft heaviness in his limbs. A bitter sediment settled like hot snow on his tongue and his vision blurred briefly. And then his muscles, tingling warmly and begging to stretch out, and out, and out, and he rolled his head to the side, and the room took an age to catch up with him. A prickle of heat flushed his chest and face, and he reached to unfasten his shirt, fingers moving nimbly between the buttons, brushing across his hot skin, the sensation lagging behind the movements. It felt... good. Like fresh sheets on his bed, like summer nights when the air blew warm through his hair, like waking up before his alarm and lying in the brightening morning, like the first time he touched her waist, clasping her gently and feeling her lean into him...  
  
His hands reached down, knocking against the cold metal of his belt buckle, sliding it free from its leather nook, and he popped the button on his pants open. A slow, fuzzy awareness came to him, his palm sliding firmly over his open fly. _Jesus. I've got a fucking hard-on._ He laughed at himself, his cheeks and chest losing their flush, and rubbed the flat of his hand along the hard outline of his dick in his underpants. A curl of warm, comforting sensation tightened in his groin, and he laughed again, closing his eyes. Sleep pressed close at the edge of his perception, and he toyed lazily with his balls, half grinning. _Nicest balls in the commonwealth. Fuck this place, for all it's worth, and fuck Hancock, and fuck the comment, fuck it_ all, _but that's gonna stick until I die. S'funny, ain't it, getting felt up by a guy in the bathroom, with with a knife and then... with cock right there in his name, hah! s'funny, because he was gonna... and, then he tells you you... y'know, tells you they're the nices...  
  
_Dimly aware he was talking shit, Nate rolled and fluffed the single pillow with his fist, shutting his eyes tightly against the stream of nonsense in his head. He gave his dick a couple of firm little tugs for good measure, just to see it was still working, y'know, and it was warm and hard in his hand, but he was too far gone to do anything more. He curled onto his side to sleep, bunching the quilt up in his hands, clutching it to his body like a child. He sank willingly, gratefully, into the blackness of sleep, nausea distant and half an idiot smile plastered on his face. He dreamt of Nora, of the first night they'd spent together, messy and awkward in his cousin's trailer, her thighs hot around his hips, his mouth a little too hard on her shoulder, pulling a fat red bruise up to the surface, how she'd whispered his name and begged him _please_ with his hand in her hair, and how he'd come too quickly across her stomach while she jerked him off.

He woke a few hours later, cheeks hot with embarrassment, cursing under his breath at the sticky, wet stain across his belly, and hopped out of bed to clean up. Hadn't had to do this in a _long_ time, and the thought made him laugh. _Thirty-seven going on seventeen._ _Must've been some good stuff then_. He washed his hands and crawled back into bed and shoving his clothes to the floor. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for his body to drift off again. Two guys were arguing outside the window.  
“I _said_ I'd give you what I got, and this is what I've got.”  
“This is _all?_ It's issue _two_ , d'you know how hard that is to come by? I ransacked the whole bottom floor of Hubris for this, nearly got chewed apart by fucking ghou- ferals, okay?”  
“Look I'm real sorry for your trouble, but it isn't quite... I mean I'm grateful, but Grognak isn't really my thing.”  
“Yeah, yeah the shroud, I get it, but it's gotta be worth more than 15 caps and _bubblegum,_ for Christ's sake.”  
“Well, if you give me just a few minutes I'll run over and get you... I've got some .38s in my drawer, you could have those? Seven or eight of them.”  
“Sure, sure, not even half of what I spent getting the fucking thing, but yeah, okay I'll take it.”  
  
 _Comic book. He's trading bullets, for a comic book._ Nate shut his eyes, sleep slowly claiming him again. _This place is some, weird, fucking fever dream. Just waiting for the furniture to start talking. And the dog. There's always a dog._

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Knock knock, sunshine. Rise and shine, got a very special guest to see you.”  
Nate bolted upright and quickly dragged the sheets over himself, his hand darting to the knife beneath his pillow even before he registered the cracking pain in his head. Hancock grinned, baring his teeth.  
“Still armed and dangerous I see.” He nodded at Nate, who lowered the knife.  
“What d'you want?” Nate sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. Hancock ignored the question, boots clicking heavily on the wooden floor as he strolled into the room.   
“S'a brave man sleeps in the nude around here.”  
Nate wiped the sleep from his eyes and swept a hand through his hair.  
“A brave man that sleeps at all around here. Funny place to be so damn proud of.”  
  
Hancock stood in the middle of the room, quietly eyeballing Nate. He let the comment slide. Well, almost. Nate reached carefully to grab his pants from beside the bed, and Hancock kicked them away.  
“ _Whoops_.” He shrugged, raising an eyebrow.  
Nate paused, then reached for them again, Hancock slid them further away with the heel of his boot. Nate drew a slow breath through his nose, and tried a third time. Hancock kicked them beneath the chest of drawers in the corner, smiling cruelly. The two stared coldly at each other. Nate took a deep breath, stood, letting the sheet fall away to his ankles, and walked naked across the room to retrieve them. Hancock cackled and clapped his hands.  
“Y'know, brother, I'm beginning to like you.”  
  
He tilted his head to the side ostentatiously, getting a better view and pantomiming lewdly with his hands, and Nate ignored him, sliding his pants on. He looked hard into the mirror, running his thumb over the stubble building on his jaw and doing his best to smooth the the black mess of his hair into shape with his fingers. He stared for a moment, at the bags beneath his eyes, the dull, sallow colour of his skin, one lip still scabbed and puffy from their little... altercation. _C_ _hrist,_ _he thought,_ _I need a shave. I look like shit.  
_  
Nate pressed his hand heavily against the glass, and sighed.  
“What did you want then? You can't just be here t-”  
“Admire your ass? No. Though if you wouldn't mind just turning a little to... no?” Hancock sighed wistfully, planting himself on the bed, bouncing a little, his boots scraping the clean sheets, getting comfortable. He leaned his weigh on one arm and, crossing his ankles, flicked the peak of his hat upwards, tilting his head back. He picked up Nate's pip-boy from beside the pillow, and flicked at it absently, rolling the dial between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
“My old pal Nicky Valentine showed up early this morning, looking for ya.”  
Nate eyed him, cautiously, over his shoulder. Hancock continued; __  
“ I asked why he's looking for a long, tall twist of trouble like you, and he said you got him out of a sticky spot a short while ago. He's waiting for you over at the Memory Den. Something about a guy named Kellogg?”  


Nate's heart iced over, and he threw his shirt on quickly, half buttoning it and grabbing his pip-boy from Hancock's hands, striding quickly out of the door.  
Hancock called after him, hands still poised where he'd been holding the device.  
  
“Was it something I said?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

  
Hancock skulked in the doorway of Amari's office, watching the two men climb slowly from the pods. They looked at one another, solemnly, Nick said something, and Nate reached out to embrace him. Valentine stumbled back a little, then patted Nate's back, and Nate stood stiffly, arm around the synth's neck. Nate drew away, clapping his hand flatly on Valentine's shoulder, thanking him, but not able to meet his eyes. Hancock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“So, what's a guy gotta do around here to get that kind of physical contact, Nicky? Some secret club I oughtta know about? Or he just jerking you rubber dick while no one's around?” He grinned and stepped forward, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Everyone snapped their eyes to him, and he preened a little, cleaning his fingernails with the edge of his knife, a show of indifference, an obvious lie.  
“Fuck off, Hancock. Keep your shit to yourself.” Nate's voice bit down just at the edge of rage, and Hancock tilted his head up, shoulders squared, little pump of adrenaline soaring through him.  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“You heard me, I'm not in the mood.”  
“I heard you all right, but maybe we oughtta pretend I didn't.”  
“John,” Nick called, earnestly, “now's not exactly the time. We're all... tired.”  
Hancock swept closer to Nate, hips swaying loosely as he swaggered over, anger building steadily in his chest. They stood, eye to eye, and the ghoul spoke low.  
  
“Tired huh? I thought we'd started to get on board, brother. But if you're gonna get pissy with me every time you need a little nap, we-”  
“Cut the shit. The braggadocio doesn't scare me. I'm not in the fucking mood.”  
Hancock drew his face up close to Nate's, breath hot on his skin.  
“ _Braggadocio_ , huh? Now ain't _that_ a big word.”   
  
Nate clenched his teeth, and they stared each other down for a moment, skin bristling, hackles raised, all eyes in the room bearing down on them. Nate shoved Hancock aside, and bolted for the door, not running, but furiously striding from the room, slamming the door hard against the wall as he left. Hancock's temper flared, he was about to chase after the ignorant piece of shit when -  
  
“ _John,_ ” Valentine's hand rested coolly on his arm, snapping him out of it. Hancock huffed, almost spitting the air from his mouth. He adjusted his hat, and turned to Nick.  
“He always like this?”  
Valentine looked at him steadily, almost sympathetic.   
“It's been a hard day. For him, more than most.”  
Hancock narrowed his eyes, gestured at the memory loungers.  
“So what's the deal?”  
Amari looked away. Nick shook his head, tight lipped.   
“I'm sorry, friend, no can do. It's a private matter; it wouldn't become me to share it with anyone.”  
“Then consider me no-one. For fuck's sake tell me, Valentine. I'm sick of him stalking around like a wounded dog. Don't give a fuck what it is, I've probably heard it a hundred times, but this shit has got to go.”  
“What, he showing you up, John?” Valentine said sternly. “Not fawning over you right away, but don't feel right to just shoot him?”  
Hancock took a deep breath through his nose, scowling, and looked away.  
“Yeah. Yeah, maybe. I don't fucking trust it.”  
Nick nodded. “Trust me, John, this is bigger than you think. Much bigger. Better to stay out of it, at least as much as you can.”   
Hancock turned abruptly, glancing impotently between Nick and Amari.  
  
“Fuck!” he cursed loud, scuffing his heel on the floor as he turned for the door.   
“Fine. Fucking fine. You tell him, then,” Hancock spat, spinning round and pointing aggressively, wavering his finger between the two, “you tell him to come see me, and apologise. I'm not kidding around. Eight o'clock, state house, Fahrenheit will be waiting at the door, and if he doesn't show, next time I see his face, you'll be picking chunks of him out of the gutter.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Eight o'clock rolled round fast.   
Nate hunched his shoulders and stepped out of the Rexford and into the wet street, rain hammering hard around him, soaking through his boots and under his collar. His heart hammered jut as hard, right up in his throat and threatening to burst out.   
He'd turned down Valentine's offer of company; he didn't think Hancock was gonna waste him; he could have done that already. And maybe he deserved a good kicking. Give him a real reason to leave this town and head back out. But fuck if he wanted to stay in the back room at the Bobrov's place again. Christ, the smell in that room was unbearable.

He pulled a smoke from his jacket, huddled it with his hands and lit up, letting it hang absently in his mouth as he rounded the corner. Fahrenheit was waiting, sure enough, at the doorway, with enough firepower to blow a hole in the sidewalk. He stood still, a few feet away from her, under an awning, finishing his cigarette. She snarled and waved her gun towards the door.  
“Smoke inside, asshole, you're late.”  
Nate shrugged and flicked the cigarette into the drain. He swallowed hard and stepped through the door.

Fahrenheit led him up the winding staircase in the centre of the building, Nate glanced quietly around. He'd been here, as a kid; some of the paintings were still the same, and he felt all the tiny, frozen years of his life collide and collapse in on themselves. Suddenly he was back to being three feet tall, ten years old and desperate to be a soldier, staring in awe at the house and soaking its history in through his boots. Yesterday. When the world was real.   
_This fucking town._ He thought, grimacing.  
Fahrenheit stopped, depositing him outside the door to the balcony. She turned to leave, and Nate plucked up the courage to ask:  
“Exactly... how mad is he?”  
Fahrenheit looked at him, deadpan. “You a prayin' man?”  
Nate sucked his teeth, considering.   
“I hear it's never too late to start?”  
She shook her head. “One, and only one, piece of advice. Don't talk smart. Shut the fuck up, jump when he says, and you might just make it out of here alive.”  
“Isn't that two?”  
Fahrenheit laughed incredulously as she trotted down the stairs.  
“You're not coming back, are you.”   
He knocked on the door, holding his breath.

It opened, slowly, onto the dark balcony, rain dripping heavily from the gutters. The downpour had subsided briefly, but water still splashed on the flat stonework from the cornice above. He stepped out, cautiously, into the dim, wet twilight.  
  
Hancock sucker-punched him, hard. Square in the jaw, his teeth clashing together and his head ringing noisily; he lost his balance, staggered, fingers frantically searching the wall for something to hold, and Hancock kicked him lazily in the gut with the heel of his boot, knocking him on his ass against the cold stone. Hancock stamped down, crushing the wind out of him in a hollow rush of pain. Nate winced and tried to curl forward, guard his prone stomach, but Hancock's boot pressed firmly against his chest, holding him still, .  
“I told you that smart mouth would find trouble.” Hancock spoke low and guttural. “And you just can't keep it shut, can you?”  
He leaned in further, Nate squirmed under his boot, but said nothing.   
“Everyone gets a second chance around here, but you are testing my patience. And I'm not well known for my patience.”  
  
Hancock pressed down once more on his chest, punctuating the sentence.  
“Now I've been fair with you, brother, can't nobody say I haven't, and I am giving you a final warning. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Do not fuck with me, or my belongings, or my employees, or my fucking town. Am I making myself clear?”  
Nate shut his eyes, head still spinning, and nodded. Hancock sighed through his nose, satisfied, and stepped back, unpinning Nate from the cold stone.  
He straightened his hat, and extended a hand. Nate stared at him, breathing heavily, sucking lungfuls of air through bared teeth, a cornered animal.  
"Take it, you dumb son of a bitch, I'm done hurting you.”  
Nate took his hand and heaved himself up. Hancock reached forward - Nate flinched, and the ghoul smirked. His hands came down on Nate's shoulders, brushing away the dust, and adjusting Nate's collar.  
  
“Now. Let's get you looking fit for official company.”  
  


 


	8. Chapter 8

“Bathroom's in there. Clean up. Get a shave. Then you and I are gonna talk.”  
Nate stood for a moment, staring at Hancock in disbelief.   
“You heard me right. Get clean, I'm waiting.”

  
Nate stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands balling nervously at his sides. The room was tiny, but on the sink was laid out a razor, soap, a towel, and a mirror hung grandly in a frame far too big for it. Nate ran the tap and lathered the soap, the smell of the bar dredging a memory of his grandmother's bathroom. He looked at his hands, black with oil and dirt, and held the fragile scent of that memory in his nose as long as he could. He looked in the mirror, the grey light of the room making his skin look thin and translucent. He sighed, fell forward, letting his forehead rest against the wall, eyes screwed shut, tears pressing from the corners.

He took a deep breath and stood straight again, smoothing the soap across his jaw and high up his cheeks, then gliding the razor down over his skin, sluicing it under the tap every second stroke. The action felt meditative, calling him away from this messy shithole and the cold new world, and into a place of calm control. _Calm, and controlled_ , he thought, _keep it right there, front of your mind; calm, and controlled._  
He finished up, splashing cold water across his face and patting himself dry. Hancock was perched with his ass leaned against the corner of a table, arms folded across his chest. Behind him, laid out across the tabletop, was... food. Real food. Bread. Corn. Meat. It looked like venison, sliced thin and pink against the white crockery, with thin gravy and some lean, twisted mushrooms. Three bottles of burgundy stood proudly beside a pair of clean, unchipped glasses.

Nate wiped the corners of his mouth and ran his hand across his jaw, looking around slowly, then back at Hancock. Hancock stood up straight.“You see Amari like I said? About the sickness?”  
Nate nodded, slowly.  
“Yeah.”  
Hancock nodded curtly and stepped forward.  
“Guess you'd better get something to eat then.”

He strode to the other end of the table and slid into a chair, leaning back, steepling his hands over his chest. He gestured for Nate to sit down. Nate settled apprehensively into the chair nearest him, shuffling it forward, and the chair legs scraped loudly across the floor. Hancock watched from beneath the brim of his hat, breathing smoothly, as Nate rested his hands on the table, fingers twitching the cutlery. _Christ, he looks pathetic._ Nate looked up at Hancock, then back down to the plate. His stomach rolled and growled, desperate for the food, but he was still clenched tight with adrenaline and couldn't face it. Hancock sighed aggressively.  
“For fuck's sake, eat it then. It ain't gonna bite you.”  
Nate lifted the small, silver fork, and pushed a piece of meat around the plate. He looked up at Hancock, who made a noise of exasperation and stood up, pointing at the door behind him.  
“Okay. Okay. I'm goin' in there. When I come back, you're gon-”  
“Just gimme a fucking minute will you?” Nate snapped at him, dropping the fork and slamming his hand down on the table. “You've kicked my ass, you've proved your point.”   
His breath was heavy through his nostrils, lips clamped tight. He took a deep, quivering breath and looked at the floor, tears prickling.  
“Just get off my fucking back. You want to throw me in the gutter and put a bullet in my head, do it. Just stop this. I've had it with this shithole town, but I- I have to... finish something.” His voice hitched, and Hancock shoulders dropped, his stance softening, his jaw still tight.

“Let me lay out something for you, brother. I was all ready to forget that we had any bad blood between us, until this morning. So now you've got two options. You either get the fuck out of my town tonight, or you sit here, you eat something so your skin doesn't fit you like a wet rag, and you talk it over with me.”  
He reached out and uncorked a wine bottle, filling the two glasses in the centre of the table. He placed the bottle down carefully, choosing his words slowly.  
“You're trouble. I can see it in your eyes. Even Nicky knows it.”   
He sipped the wine, still staring squarely at Nate, but his voice warmed.   
“And as the Mayor of this “shithole town” _I_ don't like to get caught with my pants down. _And_ I have a duty to the people, and whaddya know, that also means you. So tell me. Who are you running from?”

Nate looked at him, angry, and hollow, and desperate, and relented. He spoke quietly, like the walls might swallow his words.  
“I'm not _running_ from anyone. I'm not a fucking lowlife trying to cause you grief. I'm... I'm looking for the Institute.” he swallowed, plainly struggling with the words. “They killed my wife. They have my son.”  
Hancock let his mouth hang open, and cracked his jaw from side to side.  
“Huh.”  
Nate nodded, looking away. They fell silent. Nate pinched the bridge of his nose, and hid his face. Hancock sniffed and put his hand firmly on Nate's shoulder.  
“Eat up. Have a drink. I'll wait in there,” He gestured to the door behind him, “when you're done, come get me.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done a bit of an edit on this chapter, to get the vibe closer to what I was aiming for; it got a little too dark, as a few people in the comments rightly pointed out, so I'm working on getting it back to where I want it. Thanks for the comments, and keep shouting at me if I'm straying too far.

Hancock filled their glasses again, hands swaying slightly, and planted himself back on the sofa next to Nate, crossing his legs and stretching his arm across the back. Nate already looked better, less grey and wilted, and something had changed in his voice. He'd lost the barbed edge, somewhere around the third glass of wine, but it wasn't just that. _Relief, probably. Man's been carrying this around for christ knows how long._ Hancock passed him his glass and he sighed.  
“I'm grateful, for this,” Nate gestured around him, “It's not... I don't mean... fuck, it's just hard. Some days I'm so fucking angry, and some days are so fucking numb, and waiting, and searching, and being afraid, it's all such... heavy shit, y'know?”  
Hancock nodded. “Lonely work, huh?”  
“You just wake up and wonder how far away you are from an answer. I... I'd kill that bastard again in a heartbeat, but how much closer am I? And _who_ the fuck am I? I had a wife, and a kid, and a car, and a mortgage, and a TV and a baseball season pass, and now...”  
He made a shrugging gesture with his hands.  
“Now I've got radiation sickness and a rifle and one pair of pants. And I'm sitting in the state house drinking wine with the mayor.”  
He laughed, a small, stuttering laugh through his teeth, and put his head in his hands, sweeping his fingers tightly through his hair. He looked up, suddenly.

“ _And_ , I'm getting a little... is it warm in here?”   
Hancock shrugged. Nate thought for a moment, and laughed to himself.  
“Am I getting drunk? Shit. I haven't been drunk since...”  
“...before the bombs dropped?” Hancock laughed, and Nate raised his eyebrows and pointed, glass in hand.  
“You're closer than you think.” he laughed at himself, took a drink. “It was maybe... coming up to hallowe'en weren't w... yeah, Christmas before that. 2076.”  
Hancock rolled his eyes. “You can't fool old timers, brother. I heard you tryin' to pull this with Daisy, this pre-war man of mystery shit; get real.”  
“S'true.” Nate tugged at his collar, unfastening a button against the flush of wine rising through his face, his voice slurred slightly.  
“Okay, go on, how does that work? I can't wait to hear it.”

Nate closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa, the crest of his hair just brushing inside Hancock's arm.  
“Cryostasis. Put me and everyone else on ice. We didn't know about it, signed up for life in a vault and hopped into a pod while the world went to shit. I guess I... I guess I'm the only one that thawed out.”  
Hancock shook his head. “You're higher than I am.”  
“Then it's a lousy trip.” Nate said, eyes still shut, “Speaking of, you got any more of that Jet?”  
Hancock laughed, rummaging in his pocket. “Party boy, huh?”  
“I wouldn't say that. S'just been a long day; emotional trauma, swapping memories with a robot and a dead guy, getting punched in the face...”  
Nate opened his eyes and looked at Hancock sidelong. Hancock laughed and put his wine on the table, pulled an inhaler from his pocket.  
“I ain't sorry for that last part.”  
Nate looked at the ceiling.  
“Don't be. I'd punch me. I'm an asshole.”

He reached to take the inhaler, and missed, his hand bumping against Hancock's wrist. He laughed and laid his head back down.  
“Be a sweetheart and do it for me. I wanna get out of my mind.”  
Hancock looked him up and down. Slowly.  
“You sure?”  
“Absolutely, positively. Fuck me up, Mr Mayor.”

Hancock leaned over him, pressing the inhaler to his lips, cradling his head in the crook of his arm. The ghoul's fingers stroked gently against Nate's jaw, coaxing him to open his mouth. The plastic touched his teeth, and he bit down on it, expectantly. Hancock pushed the compressor and Nate sucked in hot, bitter air; Hancock watched the muscles in his throat contract and relax, his shoulders dropping loosely with the rush. Nate shivered and arched his back, rolling his shoulder blades and exhaling slowly. Hancock's hand played at the side of Nate's face, running gently across his taut skin and the short hairs below his temple. Nate leaned drowsily into Hancock's ribs, and stretched his legs, pressing his heels firmly to the floor, resting his hands in his lap.

“How's that?”  
Nate nodded and licked his lips dryly.  
“You want another?”  
“Hit me.”  
Hancock pressed the inhaler to his open mouth again, Nate wrapped his hand around it and sucked hungrily. Hancock shifted his weight, leaning further in, letting his knee lean against Nate's thigh. He smiled, tight lipped, and rested his hand on Nate's collar bone, a knot of interest forming low in his belly. He lifted the jet gently to his own mouth, Nate's fingers still wrapped around his hand, and inhaled, watching the bones of Nate's wrist with interest, vision smudging at the edges.  
“Another.” Nate murmured, pulling the inhaler back towards him.  
“Yeah? Sure?” Hancock leaned close to Nate's face, as Nate struggled with the words.  
“Third time's the charm.”

Hancock pushed the compressor again, and Nate's body went limp as he inhaled, his hand falling against his shoulder and boots sliding on the wooden floor. Hancock watched him for a moment, his chest rising and falling slowly, his mouth still softly open. He traced his hand down Nate's throat, and smoothed across his collarbone, unfastening another button of his shirt, and another, examining the smooth, white skin beneath. Nate's breath purred in his throat, on the edge of consciousness, and he absently pulled at the crotch of his pants, trying to readjust the pressure. Hancock smiled, baring his teeth; Nate's dick was hard beneath the rough fabric. Hancock trailed his palm down Nate's belly and wrapped a hand around the seam of his pants. Nate made a muffled sound and his hips tensed briefly.

“Feeling good, brother?”  
Nate wriggled uncomfortably and answered slowly.  
“D'you always...get... the, uh... side effects?”  
“Not all the time.” Hancock's voice was gravelly and thick, “Maybe you're just wound a little tight and need some... unwinding.”  
Nate's eyes fluttered and the corner of his mouth flickered a smile.  
“Funny.”

Hancock tugged Nate's fly open, and he shuffled in protest, bringing his knees up and trying to sit up. Hancock pulled him back, arm wrapped around his shoulder, holding him tight.

“Don't argue. You ain't a saint.”

He made a muffled sound, almost a laugh, and dropped his hand to push Hancock away, but didn't have the strength to resist, his head whirling and hazy with jet, limbs thrown off kilter by the drink. Hancock took his wrist and lay it flat across his stomach, working his own hand into Nate's underwear. Nate's heart hammered, his breathing short. Hancock gripped his shoulder tightly, Nate's pulse fast under his fingers, and wrapped his hand firmly around Nate's dick, tugging slowly. Nate grunted, half protest, half pleasure, and tried to roll away; Hancock clamped his knee across Nate's legs and kept his pace steady. He leaned close to Nate's ear, almost whispering, voice sharp and cold as stone.  
“Don't struggle. Just... enjoy the hospitality. I know it feels good.”  
  
Nate opened his eyes, gritting his teeth, focusing dimly on the table lamp across the room. Slow, cold pleasure curled up from his groin. Hancock's hand moved down across his chest, thumb smoothing the indent of his sternum, the edge of his palm grazing his nipple. Nate flinched, jerking his shoulders up, suddenly awake and aware, rolling to the side, and Hancock caught his throat, pulling his head up almost painfully and pinning him in place. Nate grabbed his wrist, and clapped his hand to Hancock's hip, clinging tightly, hot, sweet, sensation coursing through him. He whimpered, his lips parted, and his hips pushed up into the ghoul's busy hand. Hancock smiled, pressing his lips against Nate's pulse.  
"You like that, huh?"  
Nate bit his lip, faintly, reluctantly whispering;  _yes._  
Hancock growled and rubbed his crotch against Nate's hip, his own dick hard and looking for trouble. Nate's hand fumbled at his hip, thumb curling into the hollow of the joint, and he pressed the sharpness of his teeth into Nate's neck. Nate shivered.  
"You want this, don't you? Tryin' to kid me like you don't, you ain't foolin' anyone. You want it."  
His hand tightened around Nate's throat.  
"You wanna feel real good; you wanna hurt real bad. I can tell. I seen it before, guys like you, all spit and blood until you're on your knees."  
Nate mumbled something, mouth hanging slackly open, words incoherent. He gripped a handful of Hancock's shirt and pressed his ass against the hard outline in Hancock's trousers. Hancock grinned wolfishly.  
  
He let go of Nate's dick and pressed the canister of jet up to his mouth again, another buzzing, frothing wave of lightness breaking over him. He pushed the inhaler to Nate's soft, parted lips, and Nate clamped his mouth shut, shook his head. Hancock tutted under his breath and squeezed Nate's jaw.  
“Now, don't be like that. It'll be easier this way, trust me.”  
  
Nate jerked his head away, and Hancock caught him roughly by the hair, and pulled his head back. He could see Nate's veins throbbing in his neck, throat pulled tight, and he swallowed the thought of pulling his knife; _sliding the cold point down his prone, white neck, just nicking the skin, pink-red lines swelling out from his soft, sensitive body and bright blood drawing to the surface..._ guilty pleasure fizzed in his belly, the knife stayed in his belt.

Nate made a noise in his throat, lips still sealed against the plastic, and Hancock grunted roughly, fingers grasping Nate's face and pinching his nose shut. Nate bucked, but Hancock was stronger, and held him fast, until the air in his lungs felt like fire and he gasped for breath. Hancock forced the inhaler to his mouth and hit the button. Nate's mouth filled with dry, bitter air and he choked it in, the room spinning away from him. His body relaxed around him, hot nerve endings fizzing to nothing and strength sapping from his shoulders and vision fading to black. Hancock cooed in his ear.  
“Shhh. Just relax, brother. It won't hurt. If you don't _struggle_ , it won't hurt.”  
  
Hancock lifted Nate's arms, let them flop heavily over the back of the sofa, slid himself to his knees at Nate's feet. He curled his fingers into the waistband of Nate's pants and pulled, peeling the fabric down slowly over flat, white skin and dark, curled hair and the points of his skinny hips, and the pink head of his cock, wet with pre-ejaculate and hard as rock. He leaned close, lips almost touching it, breathing warm air over the taut skin, and he curled his tongue out and licked, slowly, up the underside of his cock, mapping the veins and softness and hard ridge of flesh at the head, sucking it gently to his lips. Nate moaned softly, air escaping his throat ,and his hand dropped clumsily to Hancock's face, fingers cupping softly behind his ear, knees falling wide apart. Hancock sucked the spot again, circling his fingers around Nate's balls, using the other hand to tug at his foreskin. His balls pulled up tight, and Hancock grinned; _yeah, you like that, don'tcha?_  
  
He sat back on his knees, letting Nate's dick drop to his stomach, enjoying the wet slap as it hit his skin. He admired the view, stroking his own dick, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, mouth hanging open. _Long, tall twist of trouble, for sure. Dirty, scabby, fucked-up trouble. Passed out with your pants around your ankles. Who's trouble now, pretty-boy?_  
  
He slid his hand under Nate's ass and rolled him face down on the sofa, barely responsive, pulling his ass up in the air, pushing his face into the upholstery. He reached for the canister of jet, taking a long huff for himself, and dropped his pants to his knees as the warm, hazy mist settled on him. He grabbed Nate's ass with both hands, spreading him with his thumbs and squeezing the hard flesh. He ran his hand across his tongue, wetting his fingers, and pressed them to Nate's asshole. He swirled carefully, wetting the tight hole, watching the darker skin there stretch as his fingers pushed and pulled and circled. Nate mumbled something, swimming back to consciousness, and curled around, reaching his hand out to Hancock  
“...lease, jus... wait, I'm n... please...”  
  
Hancock's guts clenched, a thick shiver of pleasure coursing through him from his balls to his shoulders, and he took Nate's hand gently in his, working his dick with his other hand. Nate gripped him tightly, mouth open against the sofa, a fat thread of spit running from his mouth to the fabric, cold and sticky against his cheek. His breath heaved through his chest. Hancock pushed the head of his dick flush against Nate's ass. Nate looked at him, struggling to focus, and squeezed his hand hard.  
“Please.” He whispered.  
  
Hancock snarled and pushed into him. Nate grit his teeth and rolled his face into the sofa, biting hard on the fabric, groaning a low, animal noise at the sharp pain and roll of sick pleasure that followed. Hancock sighed loud, pressing forward until his hips were firm against Nate's ass, Nate's back arched sharply and squirmed under him, pushing his hips back and moaning. He bent slowly, planting a kiss between Nate's shoulder blades, sweat soaked through the white cotton of his shirt and wet against his mouth, and reached under Nate's hips to find his dick. Nate inhaled sharply as he grasped it, sliding his palm firmly down the shaft, tugging his foreskin back, a slick of clear fluid running across his fingers. Hancock laughed, a cruel, short sound, and Nate grabbed the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah, that feels good, doesn't it?”  
  
Nate nodded faintly, shamefaced and near tearful, curling into the crook of his arm. Hancock drew his hips back and pushed again, feeling the air pour quickly from Nate's lungs with each stroke. His buried himself hard inside Nate, grabbing both his hips, fingers digging beneath the bone, pulling him up fast, hard, again, again, harder. Harder. Harder. Nate cried out. Hancock grabbed his hair. Shoved his face down. Nate's eyes rolled back in his head. Hancock fucked him, cruel and dirty, scraping his teeth on Nate's shoulder, slamming into his ass. Like an animal.  
Like a dog.  
_A little, lost pup, barking loud, hiding his wounds._  
  
Nate shuddered. He grabbed his dick, pumping his fist desperately, pressure building frantically in his balls, and beneath his jaw, and behind his eyes, and up through his guts, into a hot, unpleasant orgasm, his low guttural moan muffled but shaking through him as he sprayed the floor with cum. Hancock raked his nails down Nate's back, lost to his own pleasure, the sticky smack of skin against skin and Nate's tight, tense form, clenched hard around him and the sound, _fuck, the sound of Nate cumming around his cock._

Hancock's thighs tensed and he slammed upwards into Nate once more, then pulled out and heaved Nate onto his back, jamming his fingers into the hollow of Nate's jaw and snapping his mouth open. He yelled a string of curses and pleas and _oh fuck, open your fucking dirty mouth for me,_ and Nate opened his mouth wide, tongue lolling flatly under Hancock's dick; Hancock spilled thick, sticky fluid across his _stupid, worthless, pretty, fucking face_ , thick splashes coating his tongue and teeth and nose and eyelashes. He held Nate's head, softly, and Nate closed his mouth round the head of Hancock's dick, letting the last of his orgasm shiver through into his throat. Hancock growled for him to swallow, and Nate did, heavily, gagging at the taste. Hancock patted the side of his face, wiping his brow.  
“Atta boy.”  
  
He leaned heavily on one knee, on the sofa, the other between Nate's thighs, and blew hot air from his lungs. He looked at Nate and groaned, satisfied, then tugged open the last button of Nate's shirt, pulled it up and used it to wiped the rest of his cum from Nate's face. Nate looked at him, bleary eyed and distant, slumped on his back on the sofa, cum drying on his pubic hair and pants around his ankles. Hancock swallowed, blood rushing at his temples, chewing at his tongue as he fastened his own pants, a sick, heavy feeling bubbling in his chest.  
_Oh, shit._  
_Oh shit, he does not look good._  
His heart hammering, he pulled Nate's pants up over his thighs, stirring him to life. Nate lifted his ass slowly and tugged them the rest of the way, exhaling slowly. Hancock stood, washed his hands in the bathroom, thoughts ticking over fast, and returned to the room, slouching next to Nate, putting his feet up on the table. Nate sat still, eyes distant, mouth open just a fraction.  
  
Hancock sighed and shrugged an arm around his shoulder, feigned indifference spread thinly across his tense jaw. Nate shrank away, but Hancock pulled him closer, sweeping a knuckle across his temple soothingly.  
“C'mere sunshine. There's no sense in being alone. Not now.”  
Nate's shoulder leaned against the ghoul's chest, and he breathed, shakily, into Hancock's neck. Hancock stroked his hair, twirling soft, loose, oily strands between his fingers, deep in thought. Nate whispered something, Hancock snapped his attention down to him.  
"What?"  
Nate shuddered. “I'm sorry.”  
Hancock shook his head, hearing the tears nipping in his voice, black eyes finding Nate's and glaring through him.  
“No you ain't. You're ashamed. Not gonna pretend like I don't think you deserve that. But don't let it eat you, brother. It's not worth it."  
Nate closed his eyes and rested his head heavily on Hancock's chest. Hancock let him lie there, coming back to earth, until Nate stirred suddenly and sat up, face pale and eyes searching the room.  
Hancock patted the inside of his thigh, reassuringly, but dread settled like snow around him.   
"Get cleaned up. I'll fix you a room.”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Hancock chewed at the skin of his fingers, staring across the room. Distantly aware of the sound of running water, he breathed slowly through his nose, unblinking and fixing the wall with a stern glare.   
_What... the fuck. What. The fuck. Did you just do?  
_ The wall had nothing to say for itself. Hancock swallowed. His throat felt tight, his head achingly clear. Sober. And sick. He took a deep breath. Thick, leaden guilt settled its weight on his chest, around his shoulders.  
  
_That's it now. You're no different from the rest. Of the people, for the people... you asshole, what did you fucking do? He's gonna slip out there now, and the 'wealth will eat him alive, and it will be your fault. You selfish piece of shit. How the hell do you fix this? Easy, sure, like you fixed yourself. Fuck.  
  
_The door creaked, and Nate slipped through, standing with his hands in his pockets, dirty shirt stuffed like a rag in the back of his pants, eyes to the floor. Hancock's stomach hollowed; Nate glanced up at him, then looked away, eyes dark.  
“I don't... uh...” he tapped his thumbs inside his pockets, and exhaled, words trapped behind his teeth. “I... I'm gonna...”  
Hancock shook his head.  
“Don't go out there on your own. Don't.”   
He stood up, looking at Nate, almost reaching out to him, balling his hands into fists instead.   
“Wait until the morning. Here, or... the Rexford, or the Rail, but..” he swallowed hard at the word, “please. Just wait until morning.”  
Nate nodded.   
Hancock stepped towards him and Nate backed away, hands raised.   
“I don't wanna talk. I just need to...”  
  
Nate opened the door, turned to leave, and Hancock grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. Nate met his eyes, empty, and quiet.  
“What. What do you _want_?”  
“It- I...” he fumbled, “it wasn't like that.”  
Nate stared at him blankly. Hancock swallowed, his tongue sat like a tight knot behind his teeth, his mouth opening and closing silently, little stops of breath escaping without a sound. He shook his head.  
“It wasn't like that.”  
“No.” Nate sounded hollow. “Of course not.”  
  
He ducked through the door, sliding from Hancock's grasp, and disappeared down the stairs. Hancock stood, silently, staring at the door frame as Nate's footsteps faded. A door creaked. Fahrenheit's voice, low and muffled. No response, just the door again. Then nothing.   
  
Nothing at all.  
  
He turned suddenly, savagely, and cursed, sweeping glasses and bottles from the table with a violent swing of his arm, shattering them into shivers of glinting glass on the floor with an almighty crash. He kicked the table, knocking it flying against the wall, and slammed the door open, making for the balcony, buzzing with rage and guilt, and stood, back against the door, looking out over the town, breath like ice inside him.

Hancock stood there, pressed against the wood and brickwork, until the sun clawed hungrily at the sky, and his body ached, and he watched the town come to life, like vultures circling in the soft blue light of the morning. He barely registered the rap of knuckles on the door behind him, until the soft pushing of the wood at his back roused him from his thoughts. Fahrenheit cleared her throat.  
“Uh, John?” She ventured.  
He turned around, slowly.  
“There's... Valentine's here to see you.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Hancock lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.  
“Nick, I don't know where the fuck he is. If he's gone, then... well it ain't up to me to find every waif and stray in this goddamn town. You're the detective, you know him, go find him.”  
Valentine's mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes flashing.  
“John, you must think I'm fresh off the belt if you expect me to believe it's nothing to do with you. Way I hear it, you've been shooting his feet and asking him to dance since he showed up, and I'm not dropping this until you-”  
Hancock raised his hands and screwed his eyes shut, losing his temper.  
“I fucking _know_ that, Nick! I know _what_ it is, I don't know _where_ he is. If I knew that I'd be... ah, fuck, I don't know.”  
  
He steepled his fingers at the bridge of his nose and breathed a heavy sigh into his hands.  
“I'll send some folks out to look for him. Fahr'll take care of it. You,” He jabbed at Nick's lapel, fingers shaking, “you just keep your panties in place, because I have got enough of my own shit to keep in check without you handing me another bucket.”  
Valentine swatted at Hancock's hand, shaking his head angrily.  
“What is the _matter_ with you John? What the hell happened to this town? Finn, and Bobbi, and that gunner merc skulking around the Rail, and you've got it in for a guy who's trying to-”  
“I said I'll _find_ him, Nick.” Hancock snapped, adrenaline flushing through him. Nick shook his head and sighed.  
“I'll ask around the Rexford, and the Den. Be a doll and see what Daisy knows, huh?”  
Hancock nodded.  
“Yeah, I'll talk to her.”  
  
                                                                                       *****  
  
Hancock sauntered through the door of Daisy's place, leaned against the wall with one shoulder, tipping his hat to her then burying his hands back in his pockets. She finished serving, and turned to him, crossing her arms and smiling warmly.  
“And to what do I owe this pleasure, _Mr Mayor_?”  
Hancock cleared his throat, his face heavy.  
“Need a little chat with you, sweetheart. Feel like closing up early for lunch, so we can take this upstairs?”  
Daisy laughed and raised her eyebrow.  
“At this time in the morning? You're a scoundrel alright.”  
She kissed the corner of his mouth, and he attempted a smile.  
“Not... like that. Not today. Sorry.”  
She dropped her shoulders in mock relief;  
“Well thank god, because between you and me, I got this new shipment of potted meat last week, and boy, has it ever left me gassy.”  
  
She fished the keys from her pocket and locked up the till. Hancock climbed the stairs behind her, sat down in the corner, leaning an elbow on his knee and taking off his hat. Daisy arched her brow sympathetically.  
“What happened to _your_ face? You look like a pup who's been locked out all night in the rain.”  
Hancock looked at her gravely.  
“I fucked up.”  
“Nothing new there, huh?” she chided him gently, sitting down and putting her arm through his. “What was it this time?”  
He paused, touching the tip of his tongue to his lip in thought.  
“...I hurt a guy. And I don't think... I mean it was an ac-”  
  
He stopped himself, sighing.  
“It was _half_ an accident, but... he didn't deserve it. Now he's disappeared, and I'm getting the feeling he's left town.”  
“That vault guy, you mean? What did you do?” Daisy slid her hand over his, and Hancock nodded.  
“He ain't put together for this place. Not Goodneighbour... I mean the whole commonwealth. He's on his own. Christ, and he'd never even seen a ghoul before, how's he gonna get...”  
He trailed off and Daisy put her hand at the side of his face, turned him to face her, looking sternly into his eyes.  
“I got eyes, John, I can see all that. He's pre-war, sure as the sky is grey, even if I don't understand how. Now _what_ did you do?”  
He looked away. At the floor. Chewed his tongue.  
“I...” his breath stalled in his throat. He shrugged. “I hurt him. We got high, and got a little... He was enjoying it, I swear, and then-”  
He dropped his head back against the bare wall and closed his eyes.  
“Shit even that ain't... I was mad at him for being such a stubborn little bastard, and _I_ got high. Touched him up, hopped him up on jet, got rough with him. He was into it, for a while, but... he blacked out. I wasn't thinking straight, and I... He came round, but... Christ this is so fucked up. I dunno what to do.”  
  
Daisy recoiled from him slowly as he spoke; now she regarded him in careful silence. He looked at her, eyes pleading for sympathy, and she slapped him coldly across the face, hard as she could. Her voice trembled with anger, barely louder than a whisper.  
  
"What happened to you, McDonough? How could... I have seen you _kill a man_ for less."  
She looked him up and down scornfully, shaking her head.  
"You've spent too long playing god in this town, with that new name and same bad attitude. All that singing to the crowds about welcoming everyone, and helping the vulnerable is _worthless_ , d'you understand, if you're going to behave like you're a law unto yourself. Worthless. ”  
Hancock sat, motionless, face stinging sharply with the blow.  
Daisy put her hand on his shoulder, and stood up. She shook her head again, tears in her eyes.  
“I thought you were a better man, John. I thought you were a better man.”  
 He crawled to his feet, standing slowly. He spoke quietly.  
“I always wanted to be.”  
  
He swallowed and pulled his hat on, settling it straight and squaring his shoulders.  
“Valentine's looking for him. I'm gonna get some of the watch to trawl round outside the gates. If you see him, Daisy,” She looked away and he pulled her gently to face him, “if you _see_ him... tell me.”


	12. Chapter 12

Nate squatted down on aching knees, picking through the rubble at his feet. Two days' worth of dust and dark stubble clung to his skin, and his shoulders throbbed and twinged from the weight of his pack, and bracing himself against the rifle's recoil, and bedding down late in the hard dirt. He'd head for the glowing sea within the week; for now, he was scrabbling together what supplies he could find in the ruins around Goodneighbor. Slim pickings, it turned out, but enough to get by. He'd gotten used to the shock and the wreckage and the _smell_ of this new Boston now, but some things would always catch him off guard.

Hubris Comics. Another place he'd looked at, wide-eyed with his heart in his mouth, as a kid, billboard outside resplendent with colour, characters leaping from the window displays. It wasn't that way now. The inside of the building was hot and dry, and the dank smell of feral ghouls still cloyed at the air. He remembered the conversation beneath his window, a guy looking for Silver Shroud comics, trading bullets and gum and short gratitude for a Grognak scavenged from this building. Dead ferals by the door showed the other guy's progress; he hadn't gotten that far.   
  
Nate had made short work of them, the ones that were left, clumsy flailing things as they were, but one had got him good on the shoulder, digging its splintered nails into his chest and gouging a strip of raw, red flesh from below his collarbone. He'd rinsed it with a can of water – it would have to do for now, and he prayed there'd be no infection – drunk the rest quickly, clean water too precious to waste, crushed the can into a disc beneath his heel, slid it into his pocket. He didn't chance climbing the stairs for now; searching carefully through the cases and cupboards down here had proved enough for him – some caps, a pack of snack cakes and some potato chips, some pre-war cash still in the register.  
  
He heard footsteps outside, fast approaching the door, and ducked behind the counter, landing on his ass, loading his rifle. _Raiders? Another scavenger?_ _Fuck._ He didn't have the energy to fight right now, but adrenaline flooded him fast _._ The door rattled open, slowly, and Nate held his breath. Nothing moved. The shadow of a figure cast long on the floor. The figure stepped forward, shards of glass crunching underfoot, letting the door swing shut. Nate cursed silently – with the door shut, the shadow disappeared, he'd lost his only visual. The footsteps stopped.  
  
“Nate?”  
  
His chest flooded with air. _How the fuck did he-  
_ “You the one make all this mess?” _  
_Nate rolled to his knees, still pressed against the counter, and spoke quietly, raising the edge of his rifle above the desk.  
“Here. Keep your voice down. Might be more upstairs.”  
“Mmm. They don't much bother with me. Bigger problem for you I suppose.”  
Nate stood, slowly, and looked warily over the counter. Hancock stood, shotgun slung over his shoulder, in the middle of the room. Nate held his position, rifle at his hip, aimed steadily at Hancock's chest. His voice was cold, quiet.  
“What're you doing here?”  
Hancock shuffled his feet.  
“Nicky's looking for ya'. One of my guys caught wind of you down here. Thought we'd send a rescue party, just in case you were getting your hide tanned.”  
“Well call it off. I'm fine.”  
  
Hancock called dramatically over his shoulder.  
“Y'hear that boys? Go on home, Vault-nak the Barbarian here has got it covered.”  
He turned back to Nate, eyebrow arched, the room still silent, dust and warm sunlight sifting through the cracks in the boarded windows.  
“Looks like I'm all the rescue party we could spare.”  
He stepped forward, and Nate waved his rifle, pressing his lips tight together, nostrils flared.  
“Don't. Just stay where you are. I don't need your help.”  
Hancock shrugged. “Suit yourself. But Valentine's worried.”   
Nate shook his head.“You didn't come out here for Nick's peace of mind. You didn't even tell him you were coming, did you? He'd have come with you.”  
Hancock looked sheepish for a second, but followed quickly; “Wanted to make sure you were still alive first.”  
  
Nate lowered his rifle, clasping it against the wooden counter top with one hand and sweeping the other through his hair. He leaned heavily on the wood, trying to keep his breathing even. Hancock kicked the rubble pointedly with the toe of his boot.  
“Shame about this place. Supposed to be a studio up top, Kent'd probably cut his arm off to see it. I never was any good at picking locks though.”  
  
Nate huffed and drew a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it quickly and leaning back against the wall. His blood ran cold in his chest, arms, fingers – he gripped the cigarette too tightly, crushing the filter to a thin line between his lips.  
“Alright, enough. What do you want?”  
Hancock looked at him sternly.   
“To stop you running head-first into a wall, brother.”  
“What in the fuck makes you think you can call me that? Lose it. We're not the same.”  
Hancock leaned his weight on one hip.  
“Sorry to break the news, but that's where you're wrong. I'm gonna come right out with it; I'm a fuck up. I been where you are, and it got me nowhere fast. Look at me. I hit that self-destruct button so hard there's next to nothin' left of me, and I've done some things that I really ain't proud of to get where I am. I'm telling you, man to man, you ain't gonna find your kid if you don't take some help or make some friends.”  
Nate laughed coldly and took another drag.  
“Make some friends. I thought we'd tried that?”  
Hancock's shoulders dropped, and he chewed his tongue.  
“Yeah.” his voice was gravelly with guilt. “I coulda tried a little harder.”  
  
Nate crushed his cigarette out on the counter top, gathering his things, quick with anger.  
“You tried plenty hard. You got what you wanted.”  
“No, i-” Hancock almost yelped, like a hurt animal, and Nate cut him off aggressively.  
“What? Go on, what? “ _It wasn't like that?”_ Because it fucking was.” _  
_Hancock swallowed his words. Nate shook his head tightly.  
“This back and forth, hot and cold shit is for lovers. Which we,” he gestured between them, “are not. Take your sick power trip somewhere else.”  
Hancock bit his tongue, trying to keep his temper in check.  
“It wasn- isn't about power.” He paused, reassessing. “No, okay y'know what? It is. It is. You crossed me, and I gave you a second chance. And then you _still_ keep up your shit like I'm your enemy. I'm not in charge of this fucking town because I let people disrespect me like that. I thought I'd made that fucking clear.”  
He swallowed.   
“And then you _asked,_ with your head in my arms, _asked_ me to “fuck you up” and curled up in my lap, and... look I'm not saying it was right but christ, I'm not a fucking monster. You sai-”  
“I was barely in the fucking _room_ , how the hell did you think I could say yes to that?”  
Hancock reached out to touch his shoulder. “Look I didn't wanna hur-”  
  
Nate jammed his rifle under Hancock's ear, knocking the ghoul back against the counter, spilling his hat to the floor and pinning him prone against the wood. Every hair stood on end, every nerve howling with adrenaline, Nate grabbed Hancock's lapel, dragging the ghoul's face close to his. His voice was shaking, and he sniffed wetly, angry tears biting at his eyes.  
“Touch me again, and I'll blow your fucking face off. I am through being your fucking toy.”  
  
Hancock's hands shot up to his ears in a gesture of surrender, the shotgun bouncing off the counter top with a crack and tumbling to the floor. He spoke quickly, pushing the words into the air between them like a dense cloud, as though it could stop a bullet, almost shouting.  
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I came to find you to say I'm sorry. I fucked up, and I wanna make it right. You can... whatever you want, whatever you need. It's yours.”  
Hancock paused, the stale air like heavy cloth in his mouth, and his skin prickled. Nate shook his head, but lowered his rifle. Hancock felt weightless with relief. _He was really gonna fucking do it. Jesus Christ he was really gonna...  
_ Hancock kept talking.  
“The room at the Rexford, yours, paid up. Caps, food, new gear, medicine, anything. Hell, have the fucking shirt off my back.”  
Nate shoved him away, sweeping his hair back into place, wiping quickly at his eyes.  
“What good is that to me? Any of it? You can't just fucking... pay me off and forget it happened.”  
Hancock nodded gravely.  
“Believe me, I know. And-”  
Nate ground his teeth and Hancock held up a hand, interjecting before Nate could speak.  
“Jus- just... Just let me say something. I'm not expecting you to wipe the slate here and now. Just come back to town. Rest up, get your gear together, and I'll keep outta your way til Valentine's got your lead.”   
He looked earnestly at Nate.   
“Don't die out here because of me.”  
Nate looked away. “Don't flatter yourself. None of this is about you.” He fixed his mouth sternly. “I'm gonna find my son.”  
“Not on your own, br-” he bit the word back into his mouth. “Not on your own.”  
  
Hancock bent slowly and retrieved his hat from the floor, pinching the peak of it and dropping it askew on his head. He picked up the shotgun, conscious to keep it low and his hands away from the trigger, and Nate watched him coolly as he turned for the the door, stepped into the sunlight. He nodded over his shoulder, eyes narrowed with concern, and let the door swing shut behind him.   
  
Nate exhaled a long, slow breath, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back, leaning against the crumbling wall. _He's right though, isn't he? What if this gets infected? What if there's a heap of fucking trouble there, or this guy is dead and..._ He cut off the thought. He shouldered his pack slowly and swung his rifle onto his back, hesitating briefly, looking around. _Nothing. He'll be clear by now, anyway._  
  
He stepped outside, into the cool, calm daylight.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The lobby of the Rexford was all but empty when Nate stepped inside. Clair, behind the desk, looked up from her newspaper and nodded curtly to him. Nate looked around. Christ he was tired. From his left, behind the back of a tall armchair, he heard someone cough, a small, quiet _ahem,_ and he turned slowly, the small relief of company washing through him _._ Nick Valentine stood, extending his good hand, clasping Nate's arm firmly above his elbow and squeezing.  
  
“Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes. Thought you'd run away to join the circus.”  
  
Nate sat down heavily, kicking his pack under the table and leaning back.  
  
“This place _is_ the fucking circus.”  
  
Nick sat opposite him, shuffling forward on his seat.  
  
“Mmm. Still, life in the freak-show is better than being out there with the lions.”  
  
“I'm not sure it is.”  
  
Nate sat back, eyes straying about the room. There was a long silence between them; Nick whirred patiently, taking in the sights of the silent lobby and pulling a loose thread from his tie, until Nate spoke again - he looked at the floor, not meeting Nick's eyes.  
  
“I can't stay here, Nick.”  
  
Nick tilted his head. “Itching to get back on the road?”  
  
“No.” Nate rubbed his temples, pinching his fingers at his hairline. “The opposite. I'm exhausted. But this place is gonna kill me. I'm running on empty, and Hancock-”  
  
“He still bothering you?” Nick growled, eyes flashing.   
  
“No.” Nate shook his head. “No, we've... we're not gonna run into each other much. He's...making sure of that. But everything in this town reeks of him, everyone and their fucking dog seem to be in his pocket or trying to get there.”  
  
Nick shrugged, sympathetically.   
  
“His methods are questionable for sure, but he's done a lot for the folks around here. Circus it might be, but this town wouldn't be half as safe for ghou-”  
  
“Safe?” Nate coughed, almost laughing. “Are you fucking kidding me, he-”  
  
He stopped, biting back his anger, jaw clenched, and Nick waited for him to go on, lighting a smoke and passing one over to him. Nate took it gratefully, inhaling slowly and hissing the smoke between his teeth.  
  
“Safe isn't the word I'd choose. Look, I'm gonna head out to find this Virgil, soon as I can.” He took another drag. “Amari said to check the old Cambridge Polymer place, said there might be a suit or something there to help with radiation.”  
  
Nick nodded.  
  
“A smart woman. I heard they were doing some pretty interesting work up there, before the bombs.”  
  
Nate shrugged.  
  
“Then let's hope they've got something useful. I'm thinking to head out there tomorrow, see what we can scrub up, and go on South in a couple days. Stock up on what food I can carry, give the rifle a tune up tonight. I can make it by myself, if you've got loose ends to tie up here.”  
  
Nick hummed agreement.   
  
“Sounds like a plan to me.”  
  
“You don't have to come.”  
  
Nick smiled, tipping his hat.  
  
“I'll be right there with you, so long as you need me.”  
  
Nate nodded softly.   
  
“I appreciate it.”  
  
Nick stubbed out his cigarette and stood, leaning on his knees, and stepped around the table to Nate's side. He put his hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing gently, affectionately.  
  
“The Commonwealth can be a tough place. But you don't have to face it on your own. Go get some rest. I'll come by in the morning, we'll head out together.”  
  
  
  
  
They stood hunched behind a wall, motionless, outside the Cambridge Polymer Lab, Nick quickly reloading his pistol, Nate curling his fingers around the rifle stock. Rain pattered lightly around them, the smell of hot,wet tarmac - just as sticky and ripe as he remembered – hanging in the air. And that other, dustier smell, like old cloth and spoiled meat; Ferals.   
  
They'd seen a couple roaming the grounds of the building, one perched on a broken fire escape, another squat and skittering under an upturned car. They made Nate's stomach turn – they were people, once, nothing but ordinary people, rotted to a shell and still walking.  
  
Nate shuddered. He leaned and hissed a whisper to Nick.  
  
“ _Psst. You ready for this?”_  
  
Nick tipped his hat, readying his pistol, heavy police baton at his waist. Nate nodded, and the pair crept quietly to the entrance, trying the thick wooden door carefully. It budged an inch or so, but the wood was swollen and jammed shut. Nate cursed under his breath, glancing over his shoulder and standing, leaning his shoulder against the wood and gesturing for Valentine to help. Nick bent his knees and leaned his back to the door, whispering a quiet count of three, and the two men heaved the door open.  
  
They stumbled clumsily into the reception; Valentine skidding on his ass and Nate landing on his hands, rifle clattering to the ground. He picked himself up quickly, Nick sprang up to close the door, and Nate stood beside him, rifle at his chest, adjusting his pack on his shoulder.   
  
Nothing moved.  
  
Not a sound.  
  
They shared a brief sigh of relief. Nick dusted himself off and stepped quietly to the receptionist's desk; the terminal still glowed an ashen green, and Nick bent to skim the entries. Nate stood, transfixed for a moment – beside the terminal, a shapely vase, flowers neatly dried by the passage of time, and a hollow, plastic pumpkin, grinning in the dust.   
  
His mouth tightened, a lump of grief forming in his throat. That same idiot grinning face sat on the doorstep in Sanctuary Hills. Nora had picked it up at the store and insisted on putting it out, three days early, so that the neighbourhood kids “knew to call”. Bright idea, except that the neighbour's yappy little bastard dog had taken a shine to it and kept getting through the fence and trying to mount it. Nora had laughed her ass off when he'd had to wrestle it out from under the thing, dumping the bucket inside and almost hurling the little dog into the street. She'd clasped her hands on his shoulders and rutted against his leg, laughing as he pushed her up against the door and threatened to put her out in the yard. His heart emptied at the thought of that laugh. Such a beautiful thing to have lost.  
  
“You okay, kid?”  
  
Valentine's voice stirred him, Nate took a deep breath and looked about the room. Stepping through the debris and broken glass, he nodded and turned to the doorway to his right. Nick paced softly to the other doorway, pistol raised to his shoulder, and disappeared around the corner.   
Nate followed the hallway into a staff common room. The chairs sat casually askew, like someone had stood from them a moment before, maybe to use the bathroom, or to make a coffee, or to take a phonecall. An empty cola bottle had toppled to the floor, Nate bent and fished the cap from beneath the table, boots quiet on the carpet, and slipped it into his pocket.  
  
The common room adjoined a locker room, lights still bright and heavy curtains hanging from rails across smaller doorways. Nate ducked behind one, and rummaged in the lockers – labcoats, and summer clothes, and a watch, a lighter, a baseball cap, Wonderglue... Nothing. He stepped out to the hall again, pulling the curtain open along the rail, extra visibility never hurt, and swept aside the next one.  
  
“Bingo.” He muttered.

Sat on the shelf in the corner, a dull orange hazmat suit, helmet thick with dust but, it seemed, sealed and still intact. Nate rolled it tightly, cramming it into his pack and clipping the helmet through the straps. It swung loosely by his hip, and Nate thought briefly about wearing it; would it be better to risk cracking it this way, or wear it and take a hit to his vision – the visor was dark and clouded with age. He left it where it was, and turned back to the lobby.  
  
“Nick?” he called quietly, following his steps across the room and through the other doorway. A flight of stairs curled up before him. “You up here?”  
  
“Not anymore,” Nick rounded the top of the stairs, trotting down them quickly, metal hand skimming the banister. “Find anything useful?”  
  
Nate nodded, patting the helmet at his side.  
  
“Could use a clean, but it's better than nothing. What's up there?”  
  
Valentine frowned.  
  
“A dead man, and a sad story. People really will do anything for the ones they love, huh? Let's get out of here though, I've got the feeling we're not alone.”   
Nate nodded, and they turned and ducked through the doorway together.   
  
It hit them without warning, the sudden impact to the back of his head knocking Nate against the wall. The ghoul went with him, overbalanced, rolling to the floor, and Nick span quickly, pistol firing loudly in the metal shelled room. The ghoul growled and writhed, trying to stand, but another bullet put it down, bone and cartilage spraying across the floor. Nate's head reeled as he stood up, another sickly growl above him, the flat heavy padding of bare feet running fast towards them. Nick ducked, another ghoul swinging for him from the shadow beneath the stairs, and Nate aimed quickly and fired, the rifle unbearably loud in the small stairwell. He swung the rifle up quickly, bracing himself against the wall as another one darted from the upper floor, hurling itself down at them, tearing at the wall with one hand as it fell. A huge chunk of steel panelling crashed down with it, Nate rolled and it smashed down beside him, Nick yelled furiously in pain.   
  
The ghoul had dashed itself against the bottom step, neck broken and thick blood oozing from one ear, but another followed, and another from the lobby; he let off another round and one fell forward at him, snapping at his face, one arm limp and useless at its side. Nate swung the butt of the rifle hard against its teeth, shattering them and smashing its jaw to pieces, and the ghoul dropped to the floor, air gurgling from the hole in its face. Nick had managed to finish the other, but the wet, snarling sound of more staggering at them echoed through the stairwell.  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ” Nate yelled, heaving the thick metal panel up and off of Nick, slick coolant puddling uner his boot. “Fuck, are you okay?”  
  
Nick grit his teeth. “Can't feel this leg. Something's gotten severed.”  
  
Nate grabbed Valentine's arm and swung it across his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet and pulling him through the room. Nick fired across the lobby, another ghoul swallowing three rounds and dropping to the floor, Nick ejected the magazine and reached to his pocket for another, fumbling one handed as Nate heaved the door open. _Thank Christ we didn't jam it shut again._  
  
Nick hit the ground hard as Nate's legs buckled and he shoved him out onto the concrete, Nate on his knees tugging desperately at the door behind them. It slammed, and a loose brick toppled to the ground, crashing and alerting the writhing, hunched bastard under the truck. Nate stumbled up to his feet, charging at it as it dashed towards them, tackling it to the floor and blowing its face across the concrete.  
  
He stood, panting, whipping his hair out of his face, wiping the blood from his rifle stock and spinning to face Nick, beckoning with his arms.  
  
“Come on. You'll have to cover me, gimme your arm again. That's it, _hup._ ”  
  
Nick squealed through his teeth, pressure on his damaged leg shooting pain and sharp needling shocks through his system. Nate patted his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Nick's waist and heaving him almost piggyback on top of him.  
  
They scrambled back to Goodneighbor, the journey mercifully free of raiders,Valentine staggering limply through the gate and sliding down against the wall, Nate running ahead to get help. The square bustled with people, gawking and whispering; they'd never seen a synth _bleed_ before. Someone shouted, startled yelling and shoving from the back, and another voice, barking the order to clear out. Fahrenheit ran out into the square, quickly taking charge, shooing the crowd, sending someone running for Dr. Amari. Nate crashed heavily back beside Nick, kneeling and helping him peel off his coat. Amari emerged, followed swiftly by Hancock, and she dropped beside Valentine, running her hand firmly across his broken leg, rolling up the leg of his trouser. Nick gritted his teeth and winced.  
  
“How bad is it? I can't feel a thing except for this damn squealing current.”  
  
Amari looked stern. “I don't think it's as bad as it seems, but you certainly took a hit here. What happened?”  
  
“Damned ferals at the polymer lab brought the house down on me. Stupid bastard killed itself in the process, but... well see for yourself.”  
  
She nodded.  
  
“We'll get you to the Den, and I'll take a look at you properly.” She looked at Nate. “And you? Can you help me get him there?”  
  
Hancock stepped up, before Nate could answer, taking Nick's hand and hauling him onto his back.  
  
“I got this. Get yourself seen to.”   
  
Nate stared at him, then nodded, rolling his head back against the wall.  
  
Hancock sighed. “Nicky, you just sit tight, I'm gonna get you the fix of a lifetime.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Almost a week passed. Nate spent the first day sleeping off the near concussion, and developing “quite the shiner”, as Valentine had put it, around his right eye. He caught up with Nick at the Memory Den, just about every day; Nick was sprightly enough, but Amari said she was waiting for a “contact” to find her a part to replace one of the coils in his leg, and once that was fitted, they'd need to patch him up with the proper wiring and sealant to stop it from wearing down.  
  
Nate sat around, patient as he could be, visiting Valentine and trading for ammo, working together a more sturdy stock for his rifle from scrap wood and steel. The caretaker at the Rexford let him use the storage room - the workbench there was small but Nate was grateful and in repayment, helped fix up a new generator for the water heater. Anything to pass the time.  
  
He called in to the Den late in the evening, fresh pack of cigarettes in his pocket for Valentine. A guy in dark glasses and a slick, black pompadour passed him the hall, nodding and pointing finger guns at him.  
  
“Nice hair. Twinsies.”  
  
Nate paused for a moment, bemused, and turned to respond, but the guy was already gone.  
  
He rounded the corner to Amari's lab, and Nick greeted him warmly.  
  
“Ah, my favourite visitor. How's the weather out there? Be a shame if I was missing the sunshine.”  
  
Nate shook his head.  
  
“No such luck, it's been grey and pissing rain for days.”  
  
“Hmm. Well, I'm even starting to miss that, cooped up in here. Hopefully not for much longer, I think Amari's contact just dropped by.”  
  
“Guy with the glasses?” Nate raised his eyebrows, “Just now, in the hallway?”  
  
“I reckon so. If it's who I think it was.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Nick shook his head. “Not sure I can say.”  
  
Amari stepped into the room, brushing past Nate, patting his arm gently.  
  
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I have... some news. Not all of it good.”  
  
Nate turned to face her, face pinched tight. Valentine furrowed his brow.  
  
She continued, “I'm afraid luck is not on our side; my contact has managed to recover a semi-suitable part, but it is something of a newer model. We will have to replace a considerable amount of Mr Valentine's knee joint, and while we have the parts necessary and the capability, the work is delicate and will be time consuming. We'll proceed as soon as you're ready, Nick, but the work will be slow, another week at least.”   
  
“Who's “we”?” Nate asked.   
  
“Pardon?” Amari looked at him.  
  
“You said “we have the necessary parts”, who's we?” He was growing fretful, impatient.  
  
“I beg your pardon, I was referring to the three of us.”  
  
“Yeah? Who's the guy with the glasses?”   
  
Nick extended a hand, laying it gently on Nate's wrist.  
  
“I'll fill you in once I'm on my feet. Let's just get on with this.”   
  
He turned to Amari.  
  
“Can we have a moment, alone? Some short business to take care of.”  
  
Amari nodded. “Of course. I'll be outside.”  
  
Nick sat up, pulling himself up the bed, Nate supporting his shoulder. His eyes dulled, and he sighed, shaking his head.  
  
“You're not gonna like this. Yesterday, John called by to speak to me. He wants to talk to you. About travelling with you to find Virgil. Now I don't know what bad blood the pair of you have, I'm not questioning how you feel, but what he's offering is-”   
  
“You're right.” Nate pressed his mouth tight. “I don't like it. I don't care what he's offering. I'm not bought over by-”  
  
“You'll _die_ on your own, Nate.”  
  
Valentine's voice was like a slap in the face.  
  
“If you want to find your son, you're gonna have to bite this bullet. However hard it hits you first.”  
  
Nate stood up, sweeping his hair back and knotting his fingers behind his head. His voice was thin, almost a whisper.  
  
“You don't know what you're asking me to do here.”  
  
Valentine shook his head.

“You're right. I don't. But I wouldn't be asking if I could see another way. He's a tough bastard, and the rads don't bother him. And he's not a fool, for all the appearance. Nate, please.”  
  
Nate swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes closed, breath hot in his throat, his mouth dry as sand.  
  
“I'll talk to him. That's all I can say.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Nate sat on the doorstep of the Memory Den and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between the tips of his fingers, hesitating. He'd read an article, in the Boston Post, a lifetime ago; an interview with a spokesman for Grey Tortoise, where the interviewer grilled him about the studies that were increasingly linking tobacco consumption with long term ill health. Nate thought about it a lot, at the time. Nora had just fallen pregnant, and both of them had agreed to cut down, just in case.

He looked at the misshapen cigarette in his hand, and remembered her wide eyes and soft mouth, that guilty look on her face, like a kid caught with his mom's purse, when he caught her sneaking out of the garage door to smoke when her parents visited. How she'd tasted of smoke and lipstick when he kissed her, and how she'd reach her hand into his back pocket with their mouths pressed together.  
  
He jammed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit it, the memory dissipating with the smoke. He should go speak to Hancock. He wanted to sleep on it, give himself chance to prepare... but prepare for what? He'd have to face him, one way or another; with Nick laid up here, sneaking off alone wasn't really an option. And Valentine was right. He almost certainly wouldn't make it alone – the glowing sea was an unknown even to people who'd grown up in this hell, and if no-one could even tell him what to expect...  
  
“You're that vault guy, right?”  
  
Nate sighed wearily.  
  
“I guess I am.”  
  
He looked up, arms folded around his knees, cigarette balanced between his fingers. A stocky guy in a brown suit and tattered hat looked down at him, what looked like a sub-machine gun at his waist, a single metal tooth glinting as he spoke.  
  
“Mayor's asking for you. Alone. Don't worry, you ain't about to get whacked, he just wants-”  
  
“To talk, yeah, I heard.” He exhaled a stream of grey smoke.  
  
“Not much one for waiting patiently, is he?”  
  
The guy shook his head. Nate stood up, taking a final drag of his cigarette, and flicked his tab away across the street.  
  
“Let's get it over with.”  


The door to the warehouse squealed ominously as it opened, the metal grating against the stone floor. Nate peered into the dark room, glancing at the guy escorting him.  
  
“And I'm definitely not getting whacked, you're sure about that?”  
  
The guy chuckled, shaking his head, pointing him inside.  
  
“Mayor sometimes needs somewhere more private to talk, less attention than the state house.”  
  
“So... you pick people off the street and march them into back alley warehouses often?”  
  
“More often than you think.”  
  
“Right. Of course.”  
  
Nate stepped inside, ducking under the low doorway and tugging the hem of his shirt. His heart was hammering hard, but a strange, cold distance was settling over him, like he could see himself from above, watching himself walk into the darkness, hearing himself speak to the guard, like he was someone else, far away. His hands were numb, and he dug them into his pockets, shivering.  
  
They rounded a corner and the room brightened, a small window above them, and a bright gas lamp sat on a table in the corner of the room. Two long sofas were pulled to face each other across the table, a heavy, metal cooler by the foot of the table, a suitcase propped against the wall. Hancock stood as they approached, nodding, and lifting his hat. He gestured for the guard to leave, then spoke softly to Nate.  
  
“Might wanna sit down.”  
  
Nate lowered himself carefully onto the sofa, still watching himself from a distance, an odd calm in his chest. Hancock sat opposite, smoothing the tails of his coat beneath him, leaning on the arm of the sofa.  
  
“Sorry about the set-up. Better to do this away from...well, everyone.”  
  
Nate nodded. His mouth had dried up.  
  
“I assume you've spoken to Valentine.” Hancock continued, “He clued you up on the situation?”  
  
Nate nodded again. The light flickered.  
  
“Okay. Good. There's... Look there isn't an easy way, so let's get to the point. Nick's out of action, and you can't wait around forever. I'm not saying it'll be a walk in the park, but...”  
  
He paused, pressing his tongue against his teeth.  
  
“It doesn't make sense to do this alone.”  
  
Nate sat silently, his body a leaden weight on the sofa, his breath shallow and uneven.  
  
“Look, I...” Hancock started again, sweeping his hat off and letting it dangle between his knees, leaning forward on his elbows. “I dunno where to even start. I done you wrong, pretty badly, and I intend to fix that. I didn't want to interfere... If it wasn't for Valentine, you wouldn't have seen hide nor hair of me until you wanted to. I'm not trying to make things any harder than they have to be. But you gotta understand,”  
  
He looked at Nate, his eyes sincere.  
  
“It's suicide, trying something like this on your own. I been out that way before, and you can't begin to imagine what it's like. It's a fucking desert with nothing but dead land and poison water. And that's before you get to the... the radstorms, the wildlife...”  
  
Nate stayed silent. Hancock shifted in his seat.  
  
“I'm not asking to be your friend. I'm offering to make sure you come back alive. Now I know how hard this is, and I don't blame you if you're thinking of sticking me in the back as soon as we're out of town. But I'm serious, you don't know how bad it is out there. All I'm offering is a gun at your back.”  
  
Nate could barely focus, his head ringing with internal noise, and his heart hammering in his chest. _This is it. You gotta choose. Make or break, time to decide, pick your fucking poison and choke on it. Die alone or-_  
  
“Okay.”  
  
His voice sounded a million miles away. Hancock nodded.  
  
“I gotta ask one more thing. Tomorrow, I'm gonna tell Fahrenheit that we're heading out. Leave her in charge until I'm back, but... I need to address the town. I've gotta... gotta keep up appearances, and it's gotta sound glorious, inspirational." He looked at the floor. "Pretty far from the truth. You... you might wanna set out ahead of me. I'll meet you at the common. We'll go from there.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

The rain had let up, the air clearing but still heavy and grey, when Hancock turned up. Nate had heard the cheering, even from out here, and his stomach turned. The ghoul had said it had to sound glorious, but Jesus, they were ravenous in that town, every word like a scrap of meat to hungry dogs, and the baying, whooping sound of the crowd sent a shiver through him as he waited, anxiously, in the park. The common had been a place he'd spent a lot of time, as a kid, but he couldn't bring himself to go much further than a few steps onto the charred ground. It was so bleak now, barren, and empty. He'd sat down on the faded pavement nearby, hunched in a doorway, and smoked, swigging occasionally from a canteen of water.  
Hancock arrived alone, shotgun swung over his shoulder, heavy duty combat knife strapped to his hip, and still wearing that ridiculous red fucking coat. He approached Nate, mouth set firmly, eyes narrowed against the wind.  
  
“You ready?”  
  
Nate looked him up and down, nodding at the coat.  
  
“You think that's sensible? Out here?”  
  
“Why not?” Hancock shrugged.  
  
“Because I can see you from last week.” Nate shook his head in disbelief. “Are you nuts? You trying to get us killed before we're even out of the city?”  
  
“Look, sunshine, this coat is more likely to put 'em off than draw attention round these parts.” He nodded at the windows around them. “People all over this rotten land know who I am, and they know not to fuck around with me. I intend to keep it that way, and avoid us some trouble in the process. Don't worry, I brought something less... conspicuous for our little adventure through rad-land.”  
  
He tipped his hat back with the muzzle of the shotgun, and regarded Nate with cool, black eyes. Nate shook his head again, flicked away his cigarette butt.  
  
“Your funeral. Let's go.”  
  
He stood and threw on his pack, they set out south-west in awkward silence. Nate focused flatly on the road, one foot in front of the other, eyes scanning the horizon. Hancock followed, glancing between buildings, keeping an eye on their immediate surroundings, The early afternoon cast thin shadows against the grey tarmac, and their footsteps crunched quietly against the stone and broken glass. They rounded the corner, away from the Hubris building, and the crackle of distant gunfire sounded off to their right. Nate slowed his pace, edging closer the the brick fronted buildings, but Hancock pressed him on.  
  
“Don't worry about it. Lotta raiders around here, something of a turf war. Surprised you didn't land yourself in the middle of it the last time you were round here.”  
  
Nate spoke quietly. “I'm good at keeping my head down.”  
  
“Huh. Coulda fooled me.”   
  
Nate didn't respond.  
  
They walked on, past faded faces on billboards tacked to the side of crumbling buildings, advertising products that promised shining, luxurious lifestyles. A strange and distant dream now, it seemed; this world had no use for luxury. Nate made to hang a left, Hancock stopped him, touching his shoulder; he flinched.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You wanna take a right here, head down past the combat zone and towards the old metro. Then west from there.”  
  
Nate shook his head.  
  
“Through the plaza is faster.”   
  
Hancock's brow furrowed.   
  
“You been out this way before? Trinity Plaza, the tower, the church, they're crawling with mutants. It's not gonna be faster if we're plastered across the walls.”  
  
“We can make it around, if we head round the back and out towar-.”   
  
“We're not going that way. It's just plain stupid. They're dumb, but there's dozens of them, and dogs too. We don't-”  
  
“I've made it past before. There's an alleyway, round to the left, through some busted windows, into the back of the sh-”  
  
“You got a death wish?” Hancock cut in. “Why chance it? I'm not into risking my neck for the sake of saving a half hour walk.”  
  
“Then go back.” Nate clenched his jaw. “I didn't ask you to come.”  
  
Hancock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Oh, sweet. A temper tantrum, just wha-”  
  
Nate grabbed the ghoul by the front of his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall; Hancock braced himself, but held still. Nate's mouth curled into an ugly snarl, spittle flying from his teeth as he spoke.  
  
“Listen freak, I'm done with your shit. If you're here to help me, shut your _fucking_ mouth and let's get this over with.”  
  
Hancock raised his hands in surrender, biting back a retort.  
  
“Okay.” he swallowed. “Okay. We do it your way.”  
  
Nate let go, and Hancock adjusted himself, cocking his shotgun and fumbling in his pocket.  
  
“Here.” He sighed, held out a small box, rattled it at Nate. “At least take one o' these.”  
  
Nate eyed the box warily.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Mentats. Keep you sharp. “Heightens the perception”, as they say. You'll feel a little twitchy, at first, but it... just take it okay?”  
  
Nate sighed, and snatched the box.  
  
“I must be fucking crazy.”  
  
He shook two pills into his hand, threw them into his mouth, and chewed, thrusting the box back to Hancock. Hancock raised his eyebrows, watching Nate for a moment, then shook one out for himself, sitting it on his tongue, grinding it against the roof of his mouth, chalky saccharine coating his tongue. He tilted his head to the side, waiting for the familiar buzz, the light, prickling sensation behind his eyes, inside his head. Nate scrunched his eyes shut, shook his head and shuddered, like a kid tasting a lemon, and rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand.  
  
“It passes, don't worry.” Hancock said, brushing his hand down the front of his coat, rolling his shoulders.  
  
Nate looked at him, eyes wide, pupils visibly dilating, and let out a shaky breath.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Hancock waited a moment, watched Nate adjust.  
  
“You all set?”  
  
Nate glanced around, pulling his pack tighter. The gunfire had stopped. He could hear wind through the trees. Everything seemed a little... closer.  
  
He nodded to Hancock.   
  
“Okay. Let's go.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

The plaza was empty, except for the scuffling radroaches, and the heavy, scraping sound of the mutants' feet across the boards, inside Trinity Church. Nate had been right, they'd ducked through an abandoned building and circumvented the tower, heading cautiously out towards the plaza. They crossed it quickly, and ducked low behind a wall, crouched in the shadows and rubble by a preservation shelter.  
  
Nate heard it first, whipping his rifle to his shoulder.  
  
“Cover me.” he whispered.  
  
Hancock readied the shotgun, tilting his head towards the sound. Thick, laboured snuffling came from across the square, and Nate crept to the corner of the building, pressed against the brickwork. The men sat silently, barely breathing as the sound grew closer. Footsteps, heavy and lumbering. Phlegmy growls as the hound trotted towards its master. Nate's heart beat in his throat.   
  
“ _WHY YOU SO STUPID MUTT?”  
_  
The mutant was close, maybe ten yards away, around the corner. Nate slowly brought the scope to his eye, held his breath. _  
  
“ALWAYS CHEW BROTHERS THINGS, ALWAYS BREAKI-”_  
  
The shot rang out, clear and loud, and the mutant dropped to the floor on its ass, half of its face splattered against the shutters behind it. The hound snorted, unable for a moment to understand, then turned sharply towards the sound of the rifle; Nate slammed his back against the wall, reloading as fast as his hands would work. Hancock swept forward, just as the mutt rounded the corner, blasted it in the face, blood and lead shot spraying wide. The hound kicked violently and keeled over, braying and barking, and Hancock brought the gun up to its head, firing again, gore spattering the pavement and the front of his boots.   
  
Nate scowled, gestured outward, and they darted forward, past the corner of the library, Nate stooping low and quickly emptying the mutant's rifle, pocketing the rounds as they ran. A door slammed open, a charge of more mutants lumbering from the building behind them, and a shrill, mechanical beeping sounded from their right. Hancock's face dropped, eyes wide in horror, and he pulled Nate into a doorway,back against the wall, speaking fast.  
  
“You spot an opening anywhere? We gotta get inside, _now_.”  
  
Nate nodded, no questions asked; “Across the way, maybe fifty yards, there's a busted window.”  
  
“ _Shit.”_ Hancock muttered. “Okay we run for it, three, two-”  
  
Hancock grabbed Nate's shoulder and they tore out past the library, lungs bellowing the air like hot metal in their throats, and dove for the window; Nate first, long limbs slipping easily through the gap, he span and grabbed Hancock's arm, shattered glass snagging the ghoul's pants as he flung himself through. They slid across the floor, pressed their backs against the wall, below the window, guns to their chests, hearts hammering, breath hissing desperately through their teeth as they tried to stay silent. The ground beside them shook as one of the mutants thudded past the window, the shrill beeping echoing from down the street.  
  
“CAN'T HIDE FOR LONG, HUMAN. FIND YOU. SMASH YOU! SMASH YOU!”  
  
Nate turned to Hancock, whispering.  
  
“ _What the fuck is he holding?”  
  
“A nuke,” _Hancock answered.  
  
“ _A_ what?!” Nate's eyes widened in disbelief.  
  
Hancock nodded. “ _Motherfucker's on a suicide mission. He'll blow the whole building if he gets to set it off.”  
  
_Nate stared at him, for a moment, then rolled to his knees, peering quickly above the windowsill, and ducking down again, cursing under his breath – _fuck, that one is a monster_. He rolled up again, jamming his rifle out of the window, taking quick aim and steadying himself against the wall. Nerves frantically ringing through his body, adrenaline shaking his hands, he held his breath once more, fired, and immediately dropped to his knees, ducking out of sight. Hancock flinched at the sound, the mutant dropped to its knees, grabbing at the wounded shoulder, thumping its chest in rage. Nate reloaded, Hancock crawled for the other end of the window, Nate aimed and fired again, and the mutant's arm came off in a hail of shattered bone.  
  
Time slowed - Hancock fired at the stream of mutants alerted by the gunfire, Nate dropped his rifle and leapt forward, slamming the ghoul to the ground, and the nuke, and the fallen mutant's arm, crashed against the wall of another building. Blinding light shook the ruins, screaming, bellowing mutants howled, dust and glass and smashed brick clouded the air, and Nate rolled to his feet, covering his mouth, Hancock close behind him. They grabbed the guns and broke for the back of the building, up a flight of stairs, Hancock kicking through a plywood-boarded doorway, scraping through and tearing up the fire escape outside. Nate wasted no time, glanced around fast and hopped over the railing, landing heavy on his knees in the dirt, rolling onto his side.  
  
Hancock laughed; had to hand it to him, this guy didn't do things by halves. He hopped up, and over, swinging himself around in a whirl of coat-tails, and hanging from the ledge, dropping down only a little lighter than Nate. They staggered down another alley, and out into the open, a familiar sign on the wall of the opposite building: POLICE. Hancock looked at Nate, Nate nodded, and they ducked inside, crouched low.  
  
  
The building was empty but for the dead. Skeletons littered the steps to the entrance, another collapsed over the desk in the reception. The two men scouted the rooms quickly, found it empty, and dropped against the nearby desk, breathing heavily, Hancock slinging himself into a chair, throwing his feet up, Nate leaning over it, palms spread on the tabletop, his hair hanging in his face.  
  
“You think we lost 'em?” Hancock laughed humourlessly, shaking his head. “What a fucking trip.”  
  
Nate glared at him. “I thought we were trying to be quiet?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“That fucking shotgun, brought the whole town to life. You don't have anything quieter?”  
  
Hancock's mouth gaped. “Are you serious? I saved your fucking _life!”  
_  
“From what? _The dog?_ I could've handled the fucking dog, it-”  
  
“It was about to chew your balls off, you fuckwit!” Hancock slammed his feet to the floor. “Christ, I shoulda let it! What is the matter with you?”  
  
Nate swept his hair back, scowling.  
  
“I'm just not one for head on confrontations with something three times the size of me. If yo-”  
  
“Are you hearing yourself?” Hancock interjected. “Take a break, for fuck's sake. If you care to recall, I didn't want to come this fucking way, so just cool it with that attitude.”  
  
He pulled a can of jet from his pocket, shaking it and holding to his mouth.  
  
“We're still breathing, and there's about ten less of those ugly bastards for someone else to deal with.”  
  
He swung his feet back up on the table, and inhaled. Nate watched him in disbelief.  
  
“Are you getting _high_?”  
  
Hancock looked at him, eyelids heavy. “No. I'm takin' a breather. You don't live as long as me if you're so highly strung all the time. Trust me, I'm a fully functioning jet-head, I know what I'm doing.”  
  
He closed his eyes, leaned back.  
  
“Anyway, didn't hear you complain when you were throwin' back mentats like candy.”  
  
Nate opened his mouth to speak, but the guy was right. The little pills had helped a hell of a lot, they would have walked straight out in the open if he hadn't heard the hound in the first place. He dumped his pack on the floor instead, pulling out the canteen and taking a long, pointed drink. He sat down on the bench opposite, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“I guess I owe you for that.” He muttered.  
  
“What's that? An apology?” Hancock chuckled. “Don't sweat it, sunshine. I'm a professional. A _connoisseur_ some would say. I'm not about to dose us up and get sloppy.”  
  
He shuffled through his own bag, a small, ragged cloth thing with a ratty drawstring. He pulled a dark bottle out, popped the cap and swigged at it, then offered it out to Nate.  
  
“Cola?”  
  
Nate shook his head, flipped the catch on his pip-boy and set it beside him, rolling his wrist and stretching his arm out. He wandered the room, searching the shelves and drawers, pulling up a couple stimpaks, and a holotape. The label read “Winters” in a neat, printed script. Nate ticked over the name... hadn't Valentine said something about a guy named winters? He dropped the tape in his pocket, and threw the other things into his pack, returning to his seat. Hancock sat up, gestured at the pip-boy.  
  
“So where next?”  
  
Nate flicked the dial and brought up a map, studied it for a moment.  
  
“Probably safest if we head by Diamond City, then down to-”  
  
Hancock shook his head.  
  
“No can do, brother.”  
  
Nate flinched at the word, visibly recoiling, and Hancock paused, holding his hands up apologetically. Nate looked away.  
  
“Let's just say I'm not... well liked down that way,” Hancock continued, “security ain't exactly got a fondness for ghouls, of any sort. And me, well I'm top of the shit list.”  
  
Nate sighed. “Of course. Of _course_ you are. What this time?”  
  
“It's a long story. Used to live there, before I turned ghoul. Was a time I was fairly well respected – well, tolerated, at least - but McDonough, he put paid to that.”  
  
Nate narrowed his eyes.  
  
“How d'you mean?”  
  
Hancock lifted his hat, ran a hand across his head, sweeping his fingers through phantom hair.  
  
“Well, he ran for election on an anti-ghoul campaign, saw a good chunk of the city - workers, families, vulnerable folks – thrown out on their asses and left to die in the ruins. He was always an asshole, even as a kid, but I never thought he'd be... capable of that.”  
  
“As a kid?” Nate raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Yeah, we go back a long way.” He sighed. “For my sins, the guy's my brother.”  
  
Nate tilted his head. “No shit?”  
  
“No shit. When he took office, the city turned on itself, tearing people out of their homes, looting the houses, security standing by on every corner. McDonough, he just stood at that big fucking window, watching it go down. I tried to reason with him, get him to call it off; he wouldn't even look at me. Just said it was “what the people wanted.” The people that he'd whipped into a paranoid frenzy, just like you pre-war jerkoffs with your commies. No one ever fucking learns.”  
  
He took a slow pull on the inhaler in his hand. Nate nodded, chewing his lip.  
  
“Yeah. Things got pretty bad in the last few years. Inflation. Food shortages. Quarantine zones. Riots. People just... lose it, huh?”  
  
They fell silent for a moment. Hancock shuffled his feet, cleared his throat.  
  
“Anyway, I ain't welcome round those parts, so if it's all the same to you...”  
  
Nate nodded.  
  
“Yeah. We could go down through Fairline Hill, you know where Fallon's was?”  
  
Hancock nodded. “Then head west, across the Charles from there? Sounds good enough to me.”  
  
He perched his hat back on, straightening it out, dropping his feet to the floor. Nate re-attached the pip-boy, tucked his shirt back into his pants, and grabbed his pack.   
  
"Then lets move out."  
  


 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, it's a little rough, but I'm no stranger to editing after it's posted so... here goes

Heading straight south, it seemed, was the easiest way to avoid Diamond City entirely. As they approached the I-90, the strange, shifting feeling of being lost somewhere familiar, in a dream, swept over Nate. The pike tunnel was still standing, it seemed; from a distance, he could make out the wreckage of upturned cars, piled high and rusted into a scrapheap sculpture of the city's attempt to escape. A creaking scaffold of shacks was erected amid the wreckage, ragged chunks of bodies on pikes and chains, hanging languid in the air, or strapped to junk fences. Nate stood frozen.  
Hancock tugged his shoulder and dragged him to a crouch behind the shallow brick wall of the bridge.

“Get down, you idiot. You lookin' to join 'em?”  
  
Nate shook his head slowly, feeling for the tarmac beneath his fingers. The earth reeled around him.  
  
“That's... christ, so many cars. So many people.”  
  
Hancock nodded gravely, but tugged Nate's arm gently.   
  
“Look, I don't wanna be an asshole, but you're gonna have to hold that thought til we're past the bridge. There's a lot of these raider bastards around here, and this is about where my influence wears thin.”  
  
Nate leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, breathing deep, fighting the tightness in his chest. He nodded, swallowing hard.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. Let's...let's go.”  
  
They crossed the bridge crouched low and quiet, Nate silently counting his steps, like a drowning man counting his heartbeat, trying to fight the crushing panic in his chest.   
_  
Fourteen-Fifteen-Sixteen-Seventeen-people in every car, Jesus Christ, they're all dead, everyone's fucking dead, the whole damn worl-  
_  
He stopped dead. Hancock beckoned up ahead. Nate's heart beat hard against the inside of his chest, his lungs straining. He focused on the uneven road, stumbling forward, almost running.   
_  
Twentyfivetwentysixtwentyseven-twenty-eight – fuck, breath, just breathe, just_ breathe, _thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty three._   
  
His legs collapsed beneath him as they made it across, Hancock ducked around the railings and Nate followed almost on his knees and sank to the floor, his back against the wall, heart still hammering, vision blurring at the edges. Hancock dropped down beside him, one arm digging deep in his pack.  
  
“I don't wanna sound like a broken record here, but we gotta to keep moving. These raider's ain't playin' around, they find you sitting out here, they'll skin you alive. You want a little chemical assistance?”  
  
Nate tried to respond, but found his tongue heavy in his mouth. Instead, he stared ahead, shivering, teeth gritted, fingers clenched around the straps of his pack. Hancock prodded.  
  
“Nate? That a yes, or a no?”  
  
Nate looked at him, eyes blown black with fear, and Hancock nodded. He took Nate's hand roughly, peeling it from his pack and rolling his sleeve high, struggling against Nate's rigid muscles.  
  
“Okay, I'm sorry 'bout this, but you can... look, you gotta relax that arm for me brother, or this is gonna hurt like hell.”   
  
Nate's grip slackened a little, and Hancock traced a finger up the inside of his wrist, following the vein up to the crook of Nate's arm. The joint was tender, and four small, flat scars, like grains of rice, were dotted around the smooth plane of skin inside his elbow. Hancock hummed quietly in thought.  
 __  
Somebody's done this before.  
  
He gripped Nate's arm firmly, and wrestled the cap from a small syringe, tapping it against his knee and burying it quickly into Nate's fragile skin, piercing the blue cord of his vein.   
  
The hit was almost instant; a small, cold rush and then Nate's shivering muscles crashed into submission, his jaw unclenched, he blinked slowly, and his legs relaxed and stretched long against the concrete. He looked at Hancock, eyes a little heavy, but clearer and less frantic.  
  
“Where the hell did you find that?”  
  
“Glad to see you're back with us.” Hancock gestured at the bridge, “C'mon, let's get goin' before they all want a hit.”

Nate slowed his breathing, long, slow pulls of air hissing between his teeth. Gradually the whirling nausea drained, like stagnant water down a sink, and he gathered himself, rolling steadily to his feet, still pressed against the wall. Hancock looked him up and down.  
  
“You good?”  
  
Nate nodded quietly, still flushed with... _well it couldn't be that, they'd stopped making the stuff before Shaun was..._   
  
  
  
They crept onward, along the ruins of a railway line to the west, towards a distant warehouse. Nate fumbled through his memory – he'd been here before, something about the-  
  
“S'empty.” Hancock cut him off, scowling. “Thanks to you and your little stunt with that uppity bitch No-Nose. Y'know how long it took to clear the place?”  
  
Nate sucked his tongue, staying silent. Of course. The strongroom.  
  
Hancock waved them onward.   
  
“Probably full of those fucking raider shitbags now, huh?” he tutted, murmuring under his breath: “Such a sweet set up, what a fucking waste.”  
  
Nate glared at him sideways, a strange sensation bubbling in his chest – his glands prickled with sweat and his muscles tensed, but the flood of cortisol and testosterone subsided quickly, without the flare of anger that should follow.   
_  
Just like the good old days; don't get mad, get high.  
_  
He sighed. __  
  
“Is it a good time to revisit that, you think?”  
  
Hancock chuckled humourlessly.   
  
“Good a time as any. I'm pretty sore about it, brother. A lot of work, a lot of caps, went into that place.”  
  
Nate shook his head wearily. “Don't fucking call me that.”  
  
Hancock bit back a retort. No point.   
  
“C'mon. There's another place up ahead. Maybe you and your sticky fingers and pocket full of bobby pins can get us inside.”  
  


The track led into the old police rationing site, a brood of snuffling, hissing mole-rats scurrying in the grounds. One quick round fired into the dirt dispersed them, their short legs paddling frantically at the dirt and scrambling for cover as the men approached. They found the door to he warehouse sealed shut, and no amount of jimmying through the window with the end of Nate's rifle could shift the heavy wooden plank across the back entrance.  
  
Nate was determined though. Hancock followed cautiously, watching, mouth agape, as Nate hopped up on a barrel, heaved himself atop an old shipping container, dragging himself up and over the lid, and up again onto another rusted metal container. He crouched low, stepping cautiously to the roof of a derailed train carriage, then glanced around, standing straight and adjusting his pants on his hips. He stood silent for a moment, then took a deep breath, stepped back, and with a short run up he leapt for the roof, landing flat on his stomach with a heavy thud, crawling up to safety.   
Hancock whistled, impressed, as Nate disappeared through a cracked window, and a few moments later, a loud thud, and a clang, and the warehouse door unlatched with a heavy scraping of metal.  
  
“You're a fucking spectacle, sunshine. You got a history of breaking and entering?”  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
Hancock shrugged.  
  
“Maybe you oughtta look into it, I could use someone with those kinda skills.”  
  
Nate stared at him coldly. Hancock swiftly changed tack.  
  
“So whaddya find?”  
  
Nate nodded him inside, heaving the bar back across the door once he was in.  
  
“There's still a couple things here, supplies, though not many. But it's a pretty good spot to lay low a while and eat something.”  
  
He pulled together some broken boards, snapping them beneath his boots and piling them in the middle of the room while Hancock found a can in his pack. He turned it over in his hands: Pork 'n' Beans. Nate was swift to start the fire, throwing together a meal from the pickings left in the warehouse - a box of instamash, and a carton of water. And a can of cherry pie filling.   
  
Hancock laughed. He'd certainly eaten worse.  
  
Nate tugged a bedroll out of his pack and sat heavily on it. Hancock curled his nose up.  
  
“Settling in for the night?”  
  
Nate looked up from the fire.  
  
“S'getting dark, isn't it?”  
  
Hancock shrugged.  
  
“Thought you might wanna make a couple more miles.”  
  
Nate thought about it, looking solemnly at the ghoul's lapels.  
  
“Yeah. I do. But I'm sheets. Might come as a shock to you, but all that...” he paused, swallowing, “all that running for your life and seeing...”  
  
He stopped, silent, then shuffled his knees closer to his chest.  
  
“I'm not used to that yet. Still knocks me for six. And anyway, you hit me with a hell of a downer. Pre-war tranquillizer? Something that strong has gotta be pre-war, right?”  
  
Hancock raised his eyebrows, smiled a little.  
  
“You got a bit of a taste for this stuff brother?”  
  
“Don-”  
  
Nate stopped, shook his head quietly, turning the thought in his mind.  
  
“Yeah. I did once.”  
  
“Anything specific?”   
  
Nate sighed and looked away.  
  
“That stuff.” He paused. Thinking. “It's Calmex, right?”  
  
Hancock nodded gently.  
  
“You really did have a taste for it huh?”  
  
“Yeah. Friend to fucked-up veterans and hysterical housewives all across America. Stopped marketing it once the inflation really hit, when people – whole families - were using it instead of eating. Got to be it was cheaper than a loaf of bread. Just before the rations started. And it just... well, you'll know; it just eases you down into that warm, dark bit of your brain, like you're about to fall asleep, everything goes soft for a while, nothing else really matters.”  
  
Hancock leaned back against the concrete stairs behind him, scowling at his boots.   
  
“I'm sorry, man, if I'd known you'd had a hist-”  
  
“No, no, it's...” Nate waved his hand, “you did the right thing, I guess.”  
  
He laughed dryly, peeling open a can with his knife.  
  
“You gotta deal with me tomorrow though.”   
  
Hancock shrugged.  
  
“I think I owe you the courtesy of helping you weather a comedown. Might even have something that'd actually help if you... if that's the sorta thing you'd go in for.”  
  
Nate sighed, scraping the can of beans into the makeshift pan.  
  
“Yeah. That's exactly the sort of thing I'd go in for.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, just to resurrect this, because I promised I wasn't done yet, but I've been in a drawing phase recently so have been neglecting my writing. Eh well. Here it goes again.

The meal was filling enough for one person; split between the two of them, it was, at least, better than nothing. Nate unrolled a slim sleeping bag from his pack, moth eaten and ragged, and threw it out on the floor.  _Better than nothing._ The statement lingered in his mind as he crawled into it, and unfastened his shirt, peeling it off his shoulders and balling it under his cheek as a makeshift pillow. Hancock watched, but said nothing, sat in the flickering light of the fire.  
With the adrenaline gone and the warm, glowing high receding from his system, Nate looked faded and gaunt, shadows heavy under his eyes and lips cracked and dry.  _Man needs some real sleep, a meal that ain't out of a can.  
_   
“You done a lot of nights in that thing?” he called over, quietly.  
  
Nate was slow to respond, but he sighed, and muttered:  
  
“More'n I'd like. Beats the bare floor. Just about”  
  
“You shoulda said something back in town, I woulda-”  
  
“Yeah, well, I didn't.” Nate snapped. “I'm not gonna beg at your door for a handout.”  
  
“What ma-”  
  
“Just leave it. Lemme sleep this off.”  
  
Hancock swept his hat off, dropped it into his lap, tipping his head back, watching the stars through a hole in the roof.  
  
“Sure thing, br-... sure thing.”  
  
Neither one slept more than a couple of hours, but the short, stilted rest was at least short relief from the cold that settled in as the fire died down. Hancock slept on his back, coat draped over him, more for comfort than warmth, Nate curled his knees to his chest and shivered his way to the bright, bleak morning. When it arrived, he stretched, his joints popping but not relieving much of the ache, and threw his shirt back on, stuffing the sleeping bag unceremoniously back into his pack. Hancock cleared his throat and rolled to his feet, delving into his own pack for something, and offering it carefully to Nate.  
  
“If it gets too bad-”  
  
Nate shook his head, tight lipped.  
  
“I'm fine.”  
  
Hancock shrugged, slinging his pack to his shoulder and dropping his hat back on.  
  
“Suit yourself.”

  
  
  
The weather was clear enough when they set out, though the bright, low hanging sun felt like cold metal inside Stahl's head, the warmth and cottony-softness of the calmex long drained from his system. The road was quiet though, and they made good time towards the old Fairline estate. Hancock had passed him a stick of jerky to eat as they slipped out of the warehouse, and he chewed it slowly as they walked, focusing on each leathery, salty bite, willing away the urge to wolf it down and be left wanting more. He couldn't tell what animal it used to be. Probably didn't want to know. Christ, he'd kill for ham and eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. OJ. _Fuck.  
_  
“Shh, shh-shh-” Hancock's hand shot out and batted against Nate's chest, stopping him in his tracks, and he crouched instinctively as the ghoul hunched down beside him, and they dropped into the mess of uprooted concrete and leaf litter beside the road. A dog barked, somewhere nearby.  
  
Up ahead, hulking in the middle of the tarmac, a huge irradiated bear lay dead, skinned and butchered on one side. Hancock looked around, quickly, and Nate crept forward, still squatted to a crouch. He tapped the carcass with the butt of his rifle, and a thin, slinking bug buzzed into the air, a strange, ponderous sac on its back end, filled with blood; Nate recoiled with sharp noise.  
Hancock leapt to his feet, dashing forward; he grit his teeth and swung the end of his shotgun at the creature, but the bug dipped and sprayed a lungful of acrid blood for his face. Hancock ducked, missing most of the spray, and by then Nate had drawn a small pistol. He fired three shots in quick succession, clipping the bug's wing and then piercing the sack, splattering the pavement with a fine, red mist as the bug careened to the ground. Hancock spat, disgusted, and crushed it beneath his boot with an audible crunch. Nate wiped a hand across his face, and tucked the pistol into the back of his pants.  
  
“Was that- what the fuck?”  
  
Hancock lifted his boot to inspect the underside, grimacing a little, and scuffing the sole on the tarmac.  
  
“Bloodbug. You'll find 'em anywhere there's _almost_ fresh meat. Don't usually bother folks unless you disturb 'em.”  
  
Nate looked at the carcass, and then around the road. Silence. A crow cawing somewhere.  
  
“It didn't... Tell me it didn't do _that_ though?”  
  
He pointed at the bear, one side stripped clean, and Hancock shook his head.  
  
“No. It didn't. We oughtta keep moving, Fairline's not far, is it. Take a left here and go...”  
  
Nate nodded. They moved on, quietly.  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. This was supposed to be a short, dark, smut, and it has turned into something much, much darker but also more challenging to write, so I'm sticking with it.


End file.
